Heavy Silences
by blinkblink
Summary: MK/DC. "We would like Kid delivered by the 24th. For every day you're late, one bright face vanishes from the world." Children kidnapped, Nakamori has only one place to turn for help. Kaitou Kid. Epilogue: The end. Of a kind.
1. Spilt Flowers

Disclaimer: I continue to own nothing. Except the Squad. I lay claim to them. And, I suppose, Higashiyama. Like anyone would want him.

Notes: This takes place roughly four months after Slip and Fall/Pride Goeth Before. While it isn't a sequel, per se, the events there have definite repercussions here and are discussed. Equally, most of the original characters appearing here were introduced in PGB. So, uh, yeah. You might want to read those.

* * *

Nakamori gets home late, as always. The length of the hours he works never makes any difference, but starting early and staying late long ago became habit. And besides, Kid has been irritatingly active lately, pulling heists with gleeful cheek and thumbing his nose at the police left, right and centre.

The lights are out, which is unusual. Aoko likes to stay up to make sure he gets home alright – a joke, since he's more likely to injure himself tripping over a kerb while drunk than in the pursuit of his duty. His shoes clatter on the tile of the entrance-way as he toes them off; that and the keys jangling in his pocket the only sounds in the dark house. It's just as well she's gone to bed, it's – he turns on the light to look at his watch and stops cold, one hand frozen in the motion of pulling up his cuff.

In the centre of the front room a broken vase lies on its side, water still leaking out in weak droplets to trickle onto damp flower stems below. The room around it is a portrait of chaos; the low table has been knocked over, cushions strewn about on the tatami floor, bookshelves spewing books from their hold, ornaments collected and coveted by Aoko over the years toppled and shattered. Flame-red tulips are tossed about like bloody fallen soldiers, damp and drooping. Aoko cut them yesterday from the back yard; he knows it without thinking.

Shock wins out over training only long enough for him to take in the scene from a stationary position in the corner, and then he's pulling his pistol from its holster with a steady hand and striding into the wreck. Fear is rushing into his pounding heart, with fury close on its heels. "Aoko?"

The house is absolutely silent and it seems eerie, unreal. Closer to a dream, or a nightmare. There should be noise – shouting, smashing, anything – to accompany the chaos. But there is only the weak rasp of his breaths and the gentle shuffle of his stocking feet on tatami.

It takes him less than a minute to check through the two downstairs rooms, the same again upstairs. There are no signs of a struggle there. Just his room, clean with the emptiness of a space used for nothing but sleeping, and Aoko's, clean with the effort of a perfectionist. And in the latter, a painfully empty bed.

Heart cold and sapping the warmth from his chest, Nakamori digs his cell out of his pocket. His fingers are just skirting over the number-pad when the phone suddenly begins shaking and shrieking in his palm. He curses and fumbles, the ring tone ear-shatteringly loud in the silence, wastes several rings trying not to drop it.

"Nakamori."

"Inspector?" Through his own fear and that in the voice on the other end he hardly recognises his lieutenant.

"Oogawa?"

"Inspector – Emi. Emi's been taken. My wife, she says someone broke in, knocked her down and – and just took her."

Nakamori sits down hard on the stairs, gun held tight in a bloodless hand, other curled unattended on his knee. He's not a social man outside the Task Force, but inside the Force family is family, and Oogawa is closer to him than any of the others. He's one of the old squad, has been following Nakamori over rooftops for the better part of two decades chasing that elusive white cape. The man stuck with him through the bad years; had the inspector's back in the times when he didn't care whether anyone did or not. Oogawa Tsubasa is one of the few coppers' wives he still knows after losing most of the old squad one by one as the years passed and they vanished like ships in a fog, and he envies the man her; a cheerful outgoing woman who reminds him of the woman he lost thirteen years ago. Their daughter he recalls as a smiley little girl tottering around on chubby legs with short hair tied up in bright bows. She could be a poster-child for Sweet and Innocent. The shock he has just managed to mostly break through is swelling up again, and he tries to cut it off.

"Oogawa, listen. It's not just you. I just got home and – Aoko's gone." Feeling as though he's speaking through water, Nakamori swallows harshly and cleared his throat. Oogawa begins to speak, but he runs right over the man. "Listen," he repeats, trying to focus his subordinate, focus himself. "Who else has got kids? Odds are it's not just us. Who else?" They were a tight-knit group ten years ago, but the new Task Force was founded barely a year ago, last addition coming in two months back. Cops by their nature aren't the most open of people; it'll take time for him to get to know them, never mind their families. And then there's the further barrier of rank separating them from their superior, as well as Nakamori's own preference for privacy regarding his family matters which has doubtless diffused to the men. Oogawa's laboured breathing comes over the phone harsh and echoing for a moment, and then he pulls himself together.

"Yamamoto's got a son just going into junior high. Ueda's daughter just graduated from university – is she safe? Washio's got a kid, I think, but I don't know how old – you know how he is. Takarai's got the two in elementary. Oh, and Sawara's wife is expecting – sometime around the end of the month."

"Right," says Nakamori, sparing a second to be grateful for his lieutenant's reliability. "You call Washio, Takarai and Sawara. If they're okay, tell 'em to get the kids somewhere safe – the station. I'll call Yamamoto and Ueda. When you're done there call the rest starting from the top of the alphabet. Tell them to get any close relatives somewhere safe – out of town if possible. And tell 'em to meet in my office in an hour. I'll start from the bottom. And, tell 'em to keep it quiet."

"Yes, sir."

"And Oogawa?"

"Yes, sir?"

"We'll get them back."

* * *

It's harder than he had expected to get away from his house, to escape the forensics team taking prints and asking ridiculously unnecessary questions about the usual placement of every single one of Aoko's knick-knacks. They look at him askance for practically fighting his way out of the house, but he's used to that.

At his office he finds the scene he had been dreading, but expecting none the less. Most of the 15-man task force is lining the walls looking either outraged or uneasy – the lucky bachelors or childless husbands of the squad. Standing with Oogawa near his desk are Yamamoto, Washio, Takarai and Sawara. Yamamoto and Washio look palely furious, the latter in his shirt alone with dark patches on his collar; Nakamori's mind leaps to ink blots and then burns before he realises they are mascara smudges. Takarai at the edge of the group is confused and frantic, hair a mess and bangs stuck to his forehead with now-dry sweat. Sawara is leaning against the desk with Oogawa's arm around his shoulders, white as a sheet and looking sickly. Nakamori can't remember a time the usually cheerful man was without the vivid intensity which has always defined him in Nakamori's mind. Now, though, he looks almost corpse-like, and the inspector knows with terrible certainty exactly what that means.

The men shoot around to stare as he opens the door, an even mix of fear and rage in their faces. Nakamori wonders which would show on his, suspects it would vary by the minute. He's trying to present nothing but brisk control, but can't seriously imagine he's succeeding. There's a burst of chatter as he crosses the room to his desk, but it dies of its own accord before he reaches the far side of the office, leans back against the heavy wood and pauses before raising his face to his men.

"By now, you all know why we're here. I want a quick count of the missing." He looks to Oogawa, who nods and says in a clear, quiet voice which nevertheless carries through the room, "My daughter Emi, 4."

The lieutenant glances to Yamamoto, who answers briskly. "My son, Nozomi. 12."

"My sons Shin and Tsuyoshi, 7 and 9." Takarai's voice is weak and shaking, like the man.

Brief and sharp, Washio looks up. "Haruko, 7." He looks back down at the floor again, face twisted in cold rage rather than apprehension.

Oogawa says something quiet to Sawara who swallows audible and raises his white face. "My wife Reina, 8 months pregnant." Nakamori feels his own heart constrict; it's unfair to sympathise with one more than the others but emotions aren't governed by fairness, and Sawara is Old Squad. He and Reina have wanted kids for years, tried everything, had almost given up. It's no effort to remember the day the man came into the station to announce the pregnancy; the memory pours into Nakamori's mind now like mercury, bright and thick. The normally cheerful Sawara beaming almost blindingly, too dazed to stay in one place for more than a few minutes, slapping the back of every colleague he met and leaving early – at Nakamori's order – to take his wife out to dinner. His only memory of Reina is a shy woman hanging back in the crowd, polar opposite to Sawara's effusive affability, but lighting up like a spotlight in her husband's company.

A wave of muttering washes through the squad before Nakamori straightens away from the desk's support, action killing the sound. "And my daughter, Aoko. 17," he says flatly, gruff voice filling the silence. He feels the shock run through the room like a change in the weather, sees it register in the faces of his men. He begins again, before the protests can break out in the face of this new unexpected information.

"There is an obvious connection here," he says. "As far as I know, the Task Force has been the only squad attacked tonight." It only occurs to him as he speaks that he has no way to know if this is true. "Hoshino, Ohara," he singles out two men by the door with no immediate family he knows of; they straighten stiffly under his sharp eyes. "Go find out. Friends in other departments, dispatch, whatever." They nod and slip out.

"Assuming we are the sole target, who could be targeting us? What enemies have we made as a group?" He's thinking aloud more than anything else, falling into the role of police inspector. By habit he begins to reach into his pocket for a cigarette.

"Kaitou Kid," says Murata by the window, the two-month-old new comer. Nakamori's hand falls away from his pocket, muscles tensing. Silence falls like a veil, a state he has no trouble recognising the cause of: no one wants to speak out in defence of a criminal, of their enemy. But no one believes it either.

"That's true," says Nakamori, grudgingly aware of his reputation of being kinder to his quarry than he could be. At least, that's what it once was. The gods only know what it is now, what rumours the natural telepathy of a close-knit squad – so near to the hive-mind of flocks of birds and schools of fish that allows them to know which way to turn simultaneously – has spread about the incident in Tokyo General four months ago. "But at least two wives were present for the abductions, and were attacked and knocked unconscious." This is no way to conduct an investigation, by committee with almost no facts and a hell of a lot of bias.

"Kid doesn't _kill_, Inspector," says Murata, with a glance at the men standing at his side. Nakamori knows he and Washio are often partnered, but has no idea as to the depth of their friendship, if any. The new squad has potential but he still doesn't know them, not all of them. Doesn't have the absolute trust in them he did in the original Task Force, and he misses that strength to fall back on. Misses it with a sharp pain now.

"He doesn't hurt people either," his voice is growing rougher, temper thinner. Any other time, any other day, he could tell the kid to shut up, to fall in line. But his status here is uncertain; this is no official meeting of the Force, and families of kidnap victims _do not_ conduct their investigations.

"Doesn't knock them out? Maybe not by violence, but…" The man doesn't have to voice his point; they all know Kid's not above using sleep-inducing drugs, and although the line is not a fine one in Nakamori's mind he knows he cannot keep defending the thief and retain the trust of all his men.

The point is one not previously considered by most of them, and a lively discussion breaks out, supporters hampered by the awareness that they're on the wrong side of the law and arguing against their own work.

Nakamori lets it run on for a few minutes, afraid to push the men into a schism, deeply uneasy about this bottom-up command. But beside him, the other men directly involved are standing quietly, an isolated island watching the fires of debate from afar.

"Alright," he barks out eventually, and the room quiets. "It might be the Kid. We can't discount that possibility, and I won't. As far as motive's concerned it's the most likely – although if you think Kid thinks we're enough of a threat to go to all this effort to stop us, then –" he cuts himself off before he can say anything unfortunate, reddening with irritation at the need to restrain himself. But in the faces of his men he sees embarrassment and agreement. Even from Murata.

"Kid aside, who else? It might not be the entire Force that's the target; maybe just enough of us they felt warranted in attacking everyone." Unlikely; the Force works as a team and in any case they're no threat to anyone but Kid and even there they haven't been much of one to date, although he intends that to change. Nakamori tries to review the previous stations of the men now under his command, but no noticeable common factor comes up. No unit that more than two or three of them had belonged to occurs to him.

"What about ransom, sir?" suggests Ishimura.

Nakamori blinks, then turns to the men standing by him. Oogawa catches his awkward glance and fields for him.

"Don't know about you, sir, but none've us are secretly just really philanthropic millionaires." The others give varying degrees of assent.

"Right. And we have no significant connections in the Force, nothing we could bargain for anything with." He himself has ties to the Section One Superintendant and Tokyo's Police General, but that's hardly common knowledge and besides these days he's used up all his favours in those quarters. _We, in fact, have only one significant feature: our connection to Kaitou Kid._ They're all thinking it. But he's damned if he can equate that with a ransom demand, unless some of Kid's more fanatic fans are trying to bargain for the Force to leave him alone. Not a promising theory.

He's about to go on when his thoughts are interrupted by his desk phone wailing. He starts about, then reaches over the desk to pick it up with a hesitant hand, well aware that the eyes of everyone in the room are on him. "Nakamori."

"Not many men would leave their house after their daughter was abducted, Inspector," says the voice. It has the harsh grit of a heavy smoker, overset with syrupy smugness.

"Who the hell is this?" he growls, looking sharply to Oogawa, whose eyes widen. A second later he's sprinting out the door, men tripping to get out of his way.

"A man with a request."

"And the price?" _Stall, draw it out, burn time like paper_, hiss his instincts in a voiceless thought. But there doesn't seem to be any hurry on the other end of the line, and that's worrying. Says ignorance or much too much assurance, and whoever orchestrated this isn't ignorant.

"For each day you go over deadline, one more bright face vanishes from this world." He can _hear_ the sarcastic smile, damn the bastard.

"They're alright?" The men are bunching in around him, straining for the words, for reassurance, for their children's voices.

"Alive."

"That's not what I asked, dammit." _Damn _you_._

"You don't say," drawls the voice.

"Let me talk to them. Nothing happens until then." _Nothing happens without them_. _And if they're hurt… if _Aoko_ is hurt…_ his shoulders aching from tenseness, he tries to force himself to relax. It's like putting on more speed going around a curve, just makes him feel closer to spinning out.

There is a rattling sound from the other side of the phone, it might be a sigh, or a laugh. Nakamori glances at the men around him, those closest watching him with desperate, hungry eyes.

"Daddy?" It's a the voice of a young boy, but all Nakamori knows is that it isn't Aoko. He holds the phone away from his ear, and the boy says again, "Daddy?" high voice cutting through the room.

Takarai starts forward on shaking legs, grabs the phone in white hands. "Shin? Are you alright?"

He can hear the high ramble of the boy's voice, but with the phone next to Takarai's ear can't make out the words. After a minute the man's eyes narrow. "You fucking bastard, you hurt them and I'll – " face contorting in fury, the first Nakamori has ever seen in him, he snarls and hands the phone back to the inspector.

"Well?" asks the voice sardonically. Nakamori looks to Takarai, standing at his left shoulder.

"Are they alright?"

"He says so, sir. Scared, and a little roughed up, but alright. Says Oba-san and Onee-chan are looking after them." The man is still ram-rod stiff, but already his eyes are beginning to loosen, face taking on the hunted look of earlier. Takarai isn't built to carry rage, is one of those men who can only cram it in and hold it at the height of emotional intensity.

Beside him Sawara sighs in relief, shoulders slumping. Nakamori, heart tight, turns his attention back to the phone.

"Alright. What do you want?"

"That's simple, Inspector. The same thing you do. Kaitou 1412."

For a minute, Nakamori freezes, mind unable to work. All the cogs and wheels stopped dead, frozen and dusty and utterly unable to turn out the thought that's called for. And then, "You want us to catch Kaitou Kid? We've been trying for the past 20 years, dammit. Wait like everyone else!"

"Unfortunately, we're rather impatient. We would like Kid, delivered, by midnight of the 24th."

"That's the day after tomorrow!"

"Yes."

"That's impossible; you think we can just try harder and he'll be in handcuffs?"

"I think, Inspector, that if you don't, you'll have the kids' blood on your hands. You should thank us for the motivation. But don't worry – the deadline isn't absolute. You have the chance to save _some_ of them until we run out of hostages. And I'll add in a bonus: we'll accept him alive or dead. Feel free to shoot him on sight; should make your job easier."

"You – "

"We'll be in contact, Inspector. Better step up your performance." There's a click, then the soft_ beep-beep-beep_ of a dead line.

For a minute Nakamori holds the phone in a grip so tight the handset shakes while he grits his teeth until his jaw aches with the effort of not throwing the thing across the room. Then he expels all his breath at once, ribs contracting harshly, and slams it into its cradle hard enough to make the desk shake. Turns to the others.

"We have until midnight the day after tomorrow to deliver Kid, dead or alive, or they start killing the hostages – one a day." He thought hostages would be easier than children. It's not. Not when everyone knows exactly what it means.

Sawara slumps against the table, face hidden but shoulders trembling. Yamamoto crosses his arms across his wide chest, so tense he's shaking slightly.

The door opens slowly, and Oogawa steps back in, eyes narrowed and lip caught between his teeth. _My god, they look horrible_, he thinks. Turning towards Oogawa he catches sight of himself in the window turned into a mirror in the darkness, and is shocked to see his own face contracted in barely controlled fear, pain. He closes his eyes and tries once again to relax; it's like eating glass.

"Oogawa?"

"The call came from a cell, sir. I'm running it through the company records, but odds are it was stolen. Probably in a dumpster by now. Location's down by the shipping yards. I sent some uniforms down, but ten to one…" _they won't find anything_ goes unsaid. Oogawa technically has no power to give orders to any uniform other than those in the room unless in hot pursuit of the Kid – Section Two Superintendant Higashiyama saw to that after the hospital fiasco – but he's not the kind to let that stop him. Nakamori wonders who he bullied or bought, what favours he pulled in. He strides over to rejoin the group around the desk with calm movements and unfocused eyes.

"Well, we know at least whoever these bastards are, they've got a grudge against the Kid. Run checks on everyone he's stolen from, threatened to steal from, or just pissed off starting today and working backwards. Nishiki syndicate is top of the list; maybe they're trying to finish what they started four months back. We're looking for someone with enough manpower to hit five homes simultaneously." The fury pouring through his blood like liquid fire is enough to make him forget any worries about his authority for the moment; all he knows is that he's going to find these sons of bitches before they have a chance to hurt _anyone_.

The door opens again, and he pauses mid-order, teeth shutting with a click, as the men sent out earlier return. Hoshino's carrying a single piece of paper, Ohara is empty-handed.

"Sorry, sir, no – " begins Ohara.

"Yes, we know." He begins to address the rest again, "So – "

"Sir, this just came off the fax for the lieutenant." Hoshino hurries across the room and makes to hand it to Oogawa, who nods to indicate Nakamori. The inspector grabs the cheap paper and scans it, vision tightening. He's half crushed the paper before he even realises it.

"Sir?" asks Oogawa tersely from his right.

"It says the phone used belongs to one Nakamori Aoko, _goddamn them to hell!_" he rips the sheet in half and throws the pieces away, curses again when with the infuriating temerity of paper they come floating back to brush against his legs. He closes his eyes, presses the bridge of his nose with his right hand until his skull doesn't feel like it's about to shatter.

"All of you," he opens his eyes and singles out the men along the walls with a glance, "start digging." Here he pauses. All the men he would have put in charge, the men with seniority, are standing next to him. "Shimaishi, you're in charge; organize whatever turns up by order of likelihood; see if you can get any helpful details from the wives. At least we can exclude the Kid from the lists of suspects." Ten minutes ago he would have been happy; now he has no time or emotion to spare for it. "Don't go sticking your noses into Section One's investigation; as far as they're concerned we're just hypothesising."

"Yes, sir."

"Then get to it."

The men flee with a chorus of "yes, sir"s, leaving the room feeling suddenly large, cold and empty. As a victim, he has no right to be in command here. And as a victim, he doesn't want to hand it over to anyone else. There's an awkward transitioning pause as the men wait for him to speak and he waits for the strength to say what he has to say.

"Look, you four… this investigation should be headed by someone else," he says finally, forcing an emotionless tone against all feeling. Looks to Oogawa before the man can stand up for him and silences him with a stare, Sawara still staring dumbly at the floor.

"Sir, we all know you're the most experienced man in the Force when it comes to the Kid, and anyone involving him. Bringing someone else in … they'll take two days just trying to round up suspects. And we don't have two days." Yamamoto, calm and controlled, manages even the last sentence almost smoothly.

"I have no impartiality," he argues.

"Good," growls Washio.

"I can't give orders to men in the same situation as myself." He can expect them to obey orders they disagree with when it comes to the Kid, or their comrades, or even themselves. But their children? It does not and cannot work; any cop knows that.

"Sir, we all understand the chain of command." Oogawa, gentle, quiet as though speaking to a small animal. He knows just as well as Nakamori that parental instincts trump training every time. But they don't have a lot of options. At least, not that they can accept. "If we're going to work this case backwards, only the Task Force has the necessary knowledge to stand a chance of succeeding in the time frame. And … if we need to find the Kid … you've got the best chance of doing it. Sir."

"Can't you pull in a favour, sir?" says Takarai in an uneven voice, and the room freezes.

Nakamori turns to him, face white. None of the Force has spoken aloud of the Kid's escape from Tokyo Gen., and although Nakamori is sure they all have their suspicions neatly lined up only four men know the truth. That Nakamori ordered the officers out of the room to clear the way for Kid's disappearance. And that they lied to protect their superior.

"Takarai," hisses Oogawa, furious. Nakamori ignores him, lets the confrontation slip away, still-birthed.

"Sawara? What do you think?"

"I want my wife back," says the man thinly. He looks up at Nakamori with cold eyes, hard and brittle as flint. "I'll do anything to get her back. But I don't trust anyone outside the Squad to do it."

Nakamori sighs. "Fine. We'll conduct our own operation. You and your families will comply with the Section One investigation. No doubt your wives can," he pauses at the sudden fear which passes almost simultaneously across the men's faces. And remembers – a ghost of a memory, pictures and sound without any _feeling_ – what it meant to have a wife. To have someone who shared his love for Aoko. To have someone he loved and protected as an equal. It sounds ridiculous and trite, but it has been so long – so long – since he last thought of a wife as something other than a hand to help with the house or a possible witness in an investigation. "Sorry. I forgot – " forgot something 13 years ago he thought he'd never be able to, not even with the help of an entire bar's worth of liquor, not with anything short of a bullet to the brain. He doesn't want to remember, not if it means going back those days of undirected grief and rage, but gods it hurts to realise he's forgotten. He sees compassion in Oogawa, who doubtless remembers those days and the aftermath, and vague confusion from the rest.

"You should go home to your wives," he says gruffly. "They must be frantic."

"Sir, with respect, they'd be a damn sight happier knowing we were doing something to get the kids back, rather than moping at home." Washio, terse and irritated. The others don't contradict him.

Nakamori nods. "At your discretion, then." He leans back against the desk. And pauses. He's been considering options since the call come in – all of them have. But whoever's behind this is no idiot. And unless they catch a break, two days is no better than a death sentence.

"There's another option," he says at last, staring pointedly into the distance. The option he knew it would come down to as soon as he hung up. "We arrange a meeting with the Kid." He draws the words out long and thin, stretching the string of his reluctance out as far as he can.

"A trap?" breaks in Washio impatiently. "How?"

"Kid's responded to forged letters before," says Oogawa slowly. Nakamori can feel his lieutenant's eyes on him.

"So we catch him and hand him over?" asks Washio, very carefully.

Nakamori turns to look at him with hard eyes, trying to read the man's thoughts and running straight into a wall. Washio's never been open, never been personable, and Nakamori doesn't know him. Doesn't know if he hates the Kid, or respects him, or is completely indifferent. Doesn't know which way he'll jump on any number of questions which could be the difference between success and tragedy, and that's damn scary. If he could he would take him off the case, but the very reason the man's likely to be particularly dangerous is the reason he has to be on it. "That's a possibility," Nakamori says flatly, and there is no hesitation or procrastination here. "But it's not one I can agree to. I will step down rather than authorize it."

"Would you sacrifice your child – all the children – to protect the Kid?" The same careful tone, no implication, no partiality. Only curiosity, the intense need to know where matters stand.

"I will not resort to kidnapping and bargaining with lives; fucking Hollywood can give you all the reasons you need. But I won't sacrifice anyone either. No." He pauses, lets his blood cool and then looks around with sharp eyes. "But the option I have to suggest doesn't come without a cost. I suggest we ask the Kid for his help."

There's a long silence.

"Do you think he'll give it?" Takarai, carefully sticking his hand into the fire again.

"Kid hates loss of life. And I believe after all these years, he may have a soft spot for the Task Force. I think he'll help." He did before, without request, without benefit, without anything except a huge list of reasons not to. "I'll put an ad in the paper and meet Kid, alone. Any cop caught meeting or dealing with him will lose his job regardless of circumstance. Higashiyama will see to that." The Superintendant made that point abundantly clear after Tokyo General.

"Sir," says Yamamoto wryly, "we'd rather lose our jobs than our families."

"You don't have to."

"Yes, we do." Sawara, quiet and firm.

"Fine. I'll put the ad in. Meeting time 10pm, that'll give Kid the security of darkness. Place – the roof here'd be easiest, but if we didn't catch him in our own station Higashiyama'd can the whole Squad."

"Sir, is there any way you could communicate more privately? Whoever's got the kids'll see the paper as well, and if we don't show up with the Kid after that…" Takarai flushes and keeps his gaze from Oogawa.

"Contrary to popular opinion, I don't actually know who the Kid is, nor do I have a goddamn private line to him," growls Nakamori. And then pauses. Because while he doesn't know the thief's identity, he _does_ know one thing that's not common knowledge. That the world-famous Kaitou is in fact a high school student. An exceptionally bright high school student of means who has been particularly active in the city's bay area.

"There is," he continues, "a possibility of narrowing the circulation. But if it doesn't work, we'll be up the river without even a canoe, never mind the paddles." He passes dark eyes over the others.

"Do you think it will work, sir?" Yamamoto is watching him with hungry eyes. Hungry eyes which want to believe.

"I think … there's a good chance. But there're plenty of ways it could go wrong."

"More wrong than those bastards finding out we've laid a trap for the Kid and haven't turned up with him?" Washio, still blunt and abrasive. Nakamori is unsure how strongly the man had been considering handing the thief over; whether he still wants to. Wishes like hell he could know.

"No. But if it fails we'll have to advertise in the mass media _and_ have less than 24 hours – 12 from time of circulation – to arrange a plan." Nakamori closes his eyes, fingers itching for a cigarette but feeling somehow incapable of lighting one.

"If it were up to you alone, sir?"

"If it were up to me… I would keep it out of the papers as long as possible." He feels more than sees Oogawa nod, turns to look to the others. Yamamoto follows suit almost immediately. Takarai pauses, eyes wide and uncertain, before doing the same.

"Yes," whispers Sawara without looking. Nakamori turns to Washio, the unknown element. 4 months in the Task Force, not even close to Oogawa. No one to help him read the man, to reassure him, and hating the fact that he has to distrust a man due to privacy, which he of all people believes is a right. Washio glances at the others and then back to Nakamori, eyes watchful. "Alright, sir." There's a reluctance there which Nakamori can't fault but doesn't like all the same.

"Then go home. Cooperate with the investigations. Shimaishi'll contact you if anything turns up. I'll set the meeting for 10pm tomorrow, on the roof."

"Will he come here? It's an obvious trap."

"Not anymore than any of his announced heists; we're always on scene long beforehand there. No; if he gets it, he'll come."

"How can you be so sure, sir?" Takarai.

"Because the bait will be the only inheritance of any value in the Nakamori family."

TBC


	2. The Bargain

_To the Principals, Vice-Principals and Head Teachers of all public and higher private High Schools in Ota-ku Shinagawa-ku, Minato-ku, Chuuou-ku, Koutou-ku and Edogawa-ku,_

_We are conducting a vital test of information-passing in relation to kaitou 1412 (nicknamed Kaitou Kid) heists. We ask you to please read the following announcement to all students on the morning of April 23__rd__ . Your cooperation is appreciated._

_**The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department has received information that Kaitou Kid will attempt to steal the Forest's Tear on April 23**__**rd**__** at 10pm from the roof of Tokyo Metropolitan Police main branch. They request that students avoid the area. **_

_Sincerely,_

_Inspector Nakamori Ginzo, Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department Section Two, Kaitou 1412 Task Force Chief_

* * *

Almost the only things Nakamori inherited were pride and his name. The house – and the money to keep it – came from his wife, whose parents would almost certainly have objected to her marriage with a nearly destitute detective if they had been alive to do so. It was probably the Nakamori pride that had ensured the family's one treasure remained in the family: in hard times even the fixtures and furniture were sold, the adults went hungry and the children poorly clothed, but the Forest's Tear never knew the pawn broker's shameful hands. He has always thought it aptly named.

As emeralds go, it's nothing extraordinary. A good depth of hue, maybe even an unusually beautiful cut, but it has no size or particularly eye-capturing gleam. It graces no pages in prominent gem encyclopaedias, it has never adorned a member of royalty, and its smooth surface has never been darkened with spilt blood. Kid, who likes the carats of his stones in the triple digits and even then is fastidiously concerned with their splendour or at least their notoriety, would have absolutely no interest in it. No interest, except for the fact that it is owned by Nakamori.

It's sitting in his pocket now, nestled in a cheap velvet box he pilfered from Aoko's room. Compared to her life, it's weightless and valueless – might as well be a box of sand.

The roof is a large empty space, flat except for the stairwell exit, with a two-foot safety wall running around the edges. In any other circumstance he would have had lights set in each corner, spotlights on the bordering roofs as well as back-up, and a man on the stairwell's roof. Tonight, mild spring wind playing through his unbrushed hair, he has done none of these things. Has taken no precautions. Has in fact done the opposite.

He's not happy with his men. Not happy with their plan, their insistence, their involvement. Their argument is good – Nakamori standing alone on the roof looks damn suspicious, while Nakamori standing with the rest of the squad looks incompetent but par for the course – but it's in Kid's job description to walk into traps. Risking their positions unnecessarily damn well isn't in theirs.

They're bunched up around the stairwell, backs to the metal door, in what Nakamori thinks might be an attempt at presenting a non-threatening front but in fact makes them look like they're preparing to bolt back down the stairs. Standing in a smaller group in front of them are Oogawa, Sawara, Yamamoto, Washio and Takarai, dressed in civilian clothes. They've been stood down, as has he, are all supposedly leaving the investigation in the hands of Section One. Just the fact that they're fellow cops, not to mention the personal contacts they all hold between them, is ensuring them the best efforts of the Force, but that's just not enough. And to make matters worse he's conscious of Higashiyama's eye on the Squad and him in particular, has had to leave two men in the office to keep anyone from finding it suspiciously empty.

The question now is: will he have anything to hide? Has his plan even worked? So many possible ways it could fail – the Kid could be home sick, could be late to school, could after all attend a school in a different ward, could have a school with staff too ornery to read the fax.

"It's ten o'clock, Inspector," says a quiet voice behind him, Hoshino.

"And I must say, Inspector, it is heart-warming the way you're never late. Although I suppose it's only to be expected that you'd be on time for your own trap."

The entire squad swivels on its heels, Nakamori – who has been half-expecting that careless tone for the past ten minutes – faster than most.

Kaitou Kid is standing on top of the stairwell roof, looking down at them with one eye shadowed by the brim of his hat, the other a bright reflection of moonlight. The breeze is batting his mantle about his ankles, not strong enough to pull it out behind him. A bad night for the glider, for the moonlight, for Kid. And still, he showed up. His only concession to the situation, as far as Nakamori can tell, is that his hands are hanging loosely by his sides rather than in his pockets.

"Really, I'm disappointed in you, Inspector," continues the Kid. He inclines his head slightly and the moonlight falls from the glass in his eye, lets them see him raking his gaze over them.

"It's not a trap," barks Nakamori gruffly, throat dry from a day's worth of chain-smoking. He reaches into his pocket and wraps his hand around the box, pulls it out into the poor light of the roof and flips the over-tight hinge open. He takes the gem in his finger and thumb and holds it up so that what little light there is will pick it up. It's the size of a peach-stone, cold and sharp in his fingers. "A trade. You give us some help, and I'll give you the stone. A bargain, for you."

"Most stones come free for me, Inspector."

"After hours of planning and running the heist, and thousands spent on equipment. All you have to do is answer a question." He sees his men fidget, sees Oogawa turn to glance at him. This wasn't what they agreed to. They need Kid's help, but almost certainly Kid's _prolonged_ help. The odds of him being able to identify a voice are slim, although the kid does have a damn good ear. But now, with him standing here in front of them, he can't do it. Can't put another kid in danger.

The kid who's currently watching him, silently.

"Do you know who this is?" continues Nakamori, and nods to Yamamoto. The man picks the CD player up off the ground by his feet and presses play, holding it facing the Kid and dialling up the volume when it's not immediately loud enough.

"_A man with a request… For each day you go over deadline… You don't say… We'll be in contact, Inspector. Better step up your performance."_

He stood over Hoshino while the man cut and edited the recorded conversation, chose the vaguest parts while trying to put in enough to be identifiable. Because, damn it, he _doesn't_ want to get Kid involved. Doesn't want the thief's life to be at risk again. Doesn't want to be the one to force the choice of his life or Aoko's. Again.

But, he doesn't want to lose Aoko either. _Can't_.

There's a moment of silence. Then Kid says, quietly, "What is this?"

The squad shifts at his tone, at the cold flatness there. He's dropped his usual theatricality, his carefree attitude, and is suddenly sharp as a knife.

"Do you know who it is?" Nakamori repeats, own voice hard. He nods at Yamamoto who replays the tape.

"_A man with a request… For each day you go over deadline… You don't say… We'll be in contact, Inspector. Better step up your performance."_

Nakamori's expecting an answer, expecting it with 20 years of experience to back him up – although granted only one of them matters in this case – and so is shocked when instead Kid bunches and _leaps_, without much apparent effort, to land beside Yamamoto. Not as shocked as his men, however, who draw back as though a tiger had jumped down from the roof instead of a man. A boy, in fact, who for all his mannerisms and abilities and tall hats is shorter than all of them.

Standing beside Yamamoto, eyes on Nakamori rather than the man with the CD player, Kid says in the same tone, "Play it again."

Yamamoto does, gruff voice ringing out over the roof for the third time.

"Play the entire thing," says the thief, still looking at Nakamori. Paying absolutely no attention to the group of policemen standing right behind him.

"Do you know who it is?"

"I might, if you played all of it."

Nakamori shakes his head, heart sinking. "Your ear is sharper than that." Sharp enough to imitate anyone after only a few words. Certainly sharp enough to recognize a voice from a few short sentences, if he knew it.

_And now we come to the crux. Just how good a person are you, really, Nakamori Ginzo? Can you really protect the Kid at the cost of all those lives? At the cost of _her_ life?_

And, worse, the question all policemen must ask themselves, and one he had thought he'd answered years ago: _Just who are you supposed to be protecting?_

He tosses the emerald up in the air once, and to his surprise it catches a far-off light for an instant and shines bright clover green. He catches it and then, with a stiff movement, tosses it at the Kid who plucks it out of the air easily despite the lack of warning.

"Then you can go," he says, throat full of cement. There's a muttering from the squad and, worse, from directly behind him. This is why victims don't run investigations.

Kid, without examining the stone, without even glancing at it, tosses it back. Nakamori fumbles, but manages to catch it. "I haven't done anything worth that." He turns to the squad, and then to Oogawa and the rest, before finally turning back to Nakamori. The Inspector can see the hard suspicion in his eyes, and when he speaks he hears it in his sharp tones. "What the hell's going on here? What were you going to ask me before I got here? One question isn't worth that stone."

The Kid's trying to stare him down, and Nakamori knows he understands. Knows why the Inspector's veered off course, and doesn't approve. But there's an undertone of stark fear – some slight tenseness or change Nakamori recognises from that night four months ago without being able to put his finger on it – that he can't account for. But Nakamori's made his decision and he's sticking to it with all the determination his overly-proud family ever instilled in him, and it'll take a hell of a lot more than a kid in a top hat and cape to move him.

His men, however, are a different question. And Kid's not above pulling punches. He's swivelled to face them before Nakamori can see it coming, and even if he could – then what? Order them not to talk to the thief?

He's been backed into a corner and there's no way out. He knew it would end like this, knew it the minute he proposed the plan. But if there's one thing he's proven himself an expert at, it's ignoring inconvenient truths.

Nakamori's expecting it to be Takarai who spills, him or maybe Washio.

It's Sawara, speaking in a harsh whisper, and that burns. Burns all the deeper because he can understand why.

"Children have been kidnapped," he says. "Children, and my wife. We need you to help us find them."

For a minute Kid stands still, still as a statue, while the wind waves his cape like a flag. It's the only sound on the roof, the quiet shuffle of fabric. Then Kid steps forward, eyes flashing over the foremost men. "Your children?" he asks, in a tone that betrays absolutely nothing.

"And the Inspector's," says Yamamoto, with an apologetic glance at his superior.

Kid is standing with his back to Nakamori, and so the Inspector can't see his face, although he's sure even if he could it would be its usual mask. But he pauses longer than the conversation warrants, longer than a detached man would have. Nakamori isn't sure, but he thinks he hears a slight edge in the Kid's next question.

"What do they want?"

This time, Sawara doesn't answer. Neither does Oogawa, nor Yamamoto. Nakamori waits to see who breaks first, Takarai or Washio, is surprised Washio hasn't already, can see Takarai almost shaking.

In the end, before the axe drops, Kid answers it himself. Nakamori feels a rush of gratitude, quickly buried by regret.

"So, they want me. And you have no idea who it is." He turns to Nakamori. "Let them play the whole tape. It's my business now."

Beaten, and sickened that somewhere inside he's glad, he nods to Yamamoto. The man changes the track on the CD and presses play. The entire conversation comes out, Nakamori's cursing, the child's high-pitched rambling to his father, the ultimatum. _For each day you go over deadline, one more bright face vanishes from this world._

Through it all Kid stands stock still, a pillar of white in the darkness. The answer to their prayers, if they could swallow it. If Nakamori would allow it, if the men would follow through. He never will, and can only hope… But hope has never served him in good stead.

"_Better step up your performance."_ _Click._

The scratching white noise between the call's end and the deceptively quiet click of Nakamori's own receiver is much shorter than it is in his memory, where the furious silence twists on suffocatingly for minutes, hours.

He wonders whether that's how Kid feels now. But why should he?

"How many?" says Kid at last, and there is a painful brittleness there. An unprecedented slipping of the mask.

"Six," says Nakamori quietly. "But Sawara's wife is eight months pregnant."

"Seven," says Kid, tilting his head so his brim shadows his eyes. The Squad shifts slightly, both in sympathy with Sawara and in surprise to see it in the thief. "Section One has no clues?" asks Kid, finally, without looking up. His hands are resting on his hips and Nakamori's not sure why, but his instincts tell him it's to hide something. Quite possibly emotion.

"Teams were sent to all houses. No traces have been discovered. No prints, no DNA. A neighbour remembered seeing a cleaning crew on Takarai's apartment's floor. Nothing on tape in any of the apartment elevators – they took the stairs or tampered with the tapes."

"Most likely stairs," says Kid. "If they're newer buildings, elevators might stop on every floor at night as a safety precaution – more risk for them."

Nakamori, who knows that but didn't expect the thief to, raises his eyebrows. But then, it's not as though Kid knowing the most efficient get-away route from any situation is surprising.

"No surveillance in the apartment lobbies?"

"Only one had a camera; it showed nothing in the time frame."

"And the phone call?"

"Wasn't mentioned to Section One." He says it without pause, brisk and blank and clean as a knife over bone. There will be time to feel their wounds later. "It came from down by the docks. I sent two men and a forensics team who know how to keep their mouths shut." Two of his lost ships, Old Squad relocated far from their original positions but still afloat, and still behind him. "They checked the scene: nothing. I haven't had a sound-tech check the tape, but odds are the call was made from inside a car."

"And the phone?"

He doesn't mean to pause. It's the obvious next question, he saw it coming. It's more that the world goes on without him for a few seconds. He doesn't even recognize it until he sees Kid look up, eyes bright even in shadow. Cutting into him.

"It was Aoko's," he says through a mouthful of marbles.

Kid looks away. After a heartbeat he turns to face the side of the roof, his back to them, cape fluttering out with the movement.

"So now you have no options left. You want to arrest me? Make the trade?" There's a light-heartedness that fools no one: it is thin and amateurish. A black and white contrast from Kid's usual tones. Nakamori sighs heavily, feels the weight of dropping this burden on a teenager dragging him down as well.

"But how can you not know who it is? They want to kill you – to kill you so badly they're willing to murder _kids_. How can you _not know_ who hates you that much?" Of all people it's Takarai; Takarai whose fear and suffering and horror has boiled down to rage.

"If there were any real justice – any _real_ justice – officer Takarai, the stones I steal would be black with the blood that's been spilt over them. Imagine what people who would kill for the chance to get one would do if they lost it."

The breeze is still warm, fanning softly across the roof, but his voice is tundra-cold, empty and icy. The child is gone. He shifts slightly, more a shrug than anything else. "That's my look-out. It shouldn't be yours. If you want to take me into custody, lock me up in a room, or just leave me up here –" There's a mechanical click and he reaches back under his cape. The thief turns and pulls his hands back out; they come away carrying his glider apparatus like a rabbit pulled from a hat. He holds it out to Nakamori. Offers it. "– I give you my word I won't try to escape."

For the first time since he landed his head is tipped back enough that his face is no longer in shadow. Nakamori sees nothing there, absolutely nothing, but complete sincerity.

"No," he says, flatly. Waits for the shuffling, the whispering. There is none. The Squad stands united behind him. "We need your help. That does not and will not include trading you for the hostages."

"Inspector –"

"It's not negotiable, Kid." _It's not an option._ "Any help you can give – any information, anything. But no trades."

Kid stands frozen, considering, frosty in the moonlight. The glider remains in the space between them, an option on either side that the other won't agree to. Then, finally, the thief sighs and drops his arms to his side. "Fine. We'll play it your way for the next 24 hours. But if we have nothing by 11 tomorrow, all agreements are off." It's the kind of enthusiasm Nakamori would expect from someone saving his own life, not offering it up.

"Fine," echoes Nakamori, not meaning it. He nods to his men, who begin to turn towards the stairs. "Let's get started; we can figure your top enemies and run checks on … the most… Kid?"

The thief has clipped his glider back on, and is not following. Is heading for the roof's edge.

"I know nothing you don't already. Run your checks." He doesn't turn, walks with no sign of hurry, no apparent concern. Just as cocky as always. Nakamori wishes he could believe the kid wasn't shaken. Wishes even more he'd damn well _stay put_.

"Where are you going?"

"To see someone who might."

"But – wait –"

It's too late. The thief's up on the ledge and, in the sliver of a second, has tipped forward off the roof. Nakamori doesn't even bother running after him; he'll be halfway down the street by now.

"_Crap_," he hisses through his teeth, turning wrathfully toward the group at the stairwell, bunched up around the door. "Well?" he snarls.

"Uh, sir," Yamamoto, trying frantically to catch his eye.

"_What_?"

Two of the men nearest the door stumble away as if pushed from behind. Which, in fact, they were. A man in a suit emerges from the shadows of the stairwell, two uniforms behind him. The men he left behind in the office, faces painted over with dismayed guilt. But Nakamori's not watching them.

"Well, well, Inspector," says Superintendent Higashiyama. "What do we have here?"

TBC


	3. From the Shadows

Notes: Since this chapter is rather short, and has also been a bit long in coming, there may be another early next week. A heartfelt thanks to reviewers!

* * *

He's supposed to be asleep. Conan's bedtime is 9:00pm and Ran is impervious to wheedling. Fortunately, she also stops checking on him after the first half hour, and the old man doesn't turn in until after midnight unless he (read: Conan) has just finished a case and has enough cash on hand to drink himself to sleep earlier. Consequently, Conan's lying under the cover reading with a flashlight – and how sad is it that this is just everyday life instead of a camping trip? – when the doorbell rings.

It's not unheard of for clients to turn up at 11:30, although it rarely turns out well.

Ran, although possibly still awake, is doubtless in her bed clothes and unwilling to answer the door. The bell rings another two times before Conan hears the TV set on mute, then lumbering steps. There's a conversation, loud protestations from the old man, murmurs from the other, and then the door closes. And two sets of footsteps return.

He's got the flashlight switched off as soon as he realises whoever it is has come in, ready to sneak over to the door. But there's no need, because it opens silently before he can even lie down again.

"Oi, Kudou," hisses a familiar voice. In the background, the TV turns back on.

"Don't take all night," bawls the private eye at a volume that's just begging Ran to come out and tear into him.

"Hattori?" asks Conan, shocked, throwing off the blanket. He has no night vision thanks to the flashlight, and in the dim light seeping in from the main room all he can see is the Osakan boy's silhouette leaning against the door frame.

"Something's up, Kudou. Something big. We need to talk."

"Oji-san may be a lousy parental figure, but he's not just gonna let me walk out of here at midnight. And I can't sneak out either; he'll notice if I'm not in bed when he comes in." And how much does he hate having to share a room with Ran's dad? It's not so much the snoring as the constant burgeoning inconvenience, affecting him in a dozen different minor ways that all rub at him like pebbles in his shoe.

"You're telling me you can't sneak out past a 45 year-old man? Just wait 'til he's sleeping and meet me downstairs. If he asks, I'm here giving Conan a message for Kudou." There's no room for compromise in the tone.

"It won't be until after 12:30; Youko's re-run's on at midnight."

"I'll wait."

* * *

He dresses warm because this body is prone to catching cold even in mild weather, and as much as he hates it, not getting a ridiculous amount of sleep makes him even more likely to catch one.

Hattori's waiting for him on the bottom step of the stairs, wearing one of his many thin jackets and a pair of slacks. Conan's sharp eye immediately catalogues the fact that his hat is missing, and that there is no bike in sight; although he'd hardly have ridden it to Beika. If it were in fact Hattori Heiji.

They walk down the empty street in silence, elementary school student and high school student taking a midnight stroll. He twitched the sleeve of his coat up over his watch before he stepped out of the door, now he keeps his wrist close to his other hand.

They round a corner and keep walking; Conan's pretty sure they're heading to the local park. It's in sight now, empty and abandoned in the darkness, hardly lit by the surrounding streetlights. The swing set casts long, twisted shadows; the faces of the spring-horses take on sinister grins and leers in the uneven lighting. Like something out of a movie. A movie where the unsuspecting elementary school kid gets gruesomely murdered.

"Your accent's pretty good," he says finally as they turn into the park, heading for the covered platform provided for protection from the sun and the rain, and for those who don't feel like sitting on the spring-horses.

"Of course," says Hattori matter-of-factly. "Was it the hat?"

"That, and the fact that I talked to Hattori before I went to bed. Mistakes like that aren't like you, Kaitou Kid."

"I was a bit pressed," says Hattori's face with different voice and a Tokyo accent. Conan represses a shiver as he sits on the bench, Kid slouching next to him.

"I take it you haven't come here in the middle of the night to beg me to arrest you. You've got your own cop to bug for that."

Kid reaches into a pocket of his jacket and Conan tenses, makes no effort to hide the fact that he's got the watch aimed at the thief. The only reason he hasn't pressed the trigger yet is because the Kid's never threatened him yet – and it would have been easy – has even saved his bacon a couple of times. He's willing to hear the thief out for that, although not to give him any leeway. But all the other boy pulls out it a tape-recorder. "Do you recognise this voice?" he asks in a tone which gives away absolutely nothing, and depresses the button.

It's a copy of a copy; Conan can hear the button being pressed on the other end, and the fuzzy effect of too many covers, and even someone breathing nearby, but those thoughts plummet right out of his mind when the voice begins to speak.

"_A man with a request… For each day you go over deadline… You don't say… We'll be in contact, Inspector. Better step up your performance."_

There's a click from the tape recorder, and then another as Kid stops it. Conan can feel the thief's eyes on him, watching him with a fox's cunning.

"Play it again," he orders, stalling. The thief pauses just long enough to silently register his scepticism, and then rewinds and starts the tape over.

The ten seconds the edited clip takes to play is not enough time for him to even gather his thoughts, never mind think. Not nearly enough. Because Kaitou Kid has come to him with what is clearly a ransom demand, made by Gin. He can't screw this up, can't mess up this chance. But that's not what's occupying the majority of his thoughts. What's occupying the majority of his thoughts is: _shit._

The tape finishes for the second time and Kid turns his hand over; the player is gone when he turns it back again. He waits for an answer, and when none comes leans back on the bench, head tilted back to stare up at the dark ceiling. It's a calm night and the park is silent around them, no rustle of trees or squeaking swings. Just the far-away rumble of traffic, too distant to register consciously.

"That bad, huh?" says Kid, eventually, without looking down at him.

"What did they take?"

_Please not people, please not people, for the love of the gods let it not be lives at stake_.

"Children."

_Fuck_. _This is. _So. Fucking. Bad. Apart from the fact that everyone the Black Organisation touches dies, he needs to play his operation with microscopic precision if he's going to hang on to his own life, and hostage situations do not allow for that kind of care. This will force his hand, and in the end most likely…

"So who are they?" Kid is remaining carefully neutral, gazing out now at the haze of golden-grey clouds that make up Beika's night sky on anything other than the clearest nights. He might, from his tone, have been talking about politics, or coffee, or anything else he didn't give a damn about. The fact that they're sitting here means he cares, cares a dangerous amount.

"The less you know about them, the safer you'll be."

"It may have escaped you, kid, but playing things safe's not exactly a founding principal of my profession."

He ignores the _kid_, ignores most of the thief's poise. "They're killers. I don't mean mercenaries or assassins. I mean they kill people who get in their way, and _knowing they exist_ counts as getting in their way." He keeps the anger out of his voice, but even after all this time he still can't sift out the bitterness.

"Who do you know who got in their way?" Kid turns to look at him, eyes flashing in the dim lights. It's not curiosity, not ghoulishness. It's fear.

"Me," Conan – Shin'ichi – says flatly.

There's a pause. And then. "Being a brat again must suck, but it's not exactly death." He's never figured out exactly how the Kid knows who he is. He supposes that really it's not that big a mystery; one boy disappears, another one shows up with the same interests and the same intellect. Anyone with any kind of detachment, anyone whose last name isn't Mouri, could probably see it miles away. Anyone, like Gin.

"It would have been if their drug had done what it was supposed to." A dark certainty. And then more silence.

"They've kidnapped five children and a woman – a pregnant woman. If they don't get what they want by midnight – 23 and a half hours from now – they'll start killing them. One a day."

"What guarantee do you have that they haven't killed them already?" He hates himself for being able to ask it with relative calm, only gagging slightly at the words, a taste of bile in the back of his throat.

"None," answers the thief. "They were alive when the ransom demand was made yesterday night. Now? Who knows." He shrugs, a rustle of thick cloth, eyes staring over Conan's shoulder, more sombre than the detective could have ever imagined Hattori looking.

"And the ransom?"

"Me."

"Shit." He says it aloud this time, without meaning to. There's a heart-beat of silence, and then the thief snorts.

"And I didn't think you cared."

"Don't be a smart-ass. These bastards –" he cuts himself off. He doesn't need to lecture Kaitou Kid on the putrid, festering corners of the criminal underground. For all he knows, the thief's never seen a corpse, never met a murderer. Never seen death. But regardless, Kid's no innocent. "Look. If these men are holding victims, we have to find them _immediately_. Because every second we don't is another second they might be getting bored with keeping them alive."

"So get on it, detective," says Kid, eyes snapping onto him. Conan blinks.

"I'm going to need some evidence for that… You know, clues," he prompts, raising his eyebrows.

"I thought you knew who these guys were!"

"I know their _names_. I know what they're like. I know what kind of car they like to drive. I have absolutely no idea where they are; I've been trying to track them down for more than a year!"

"But you're a detective, everyone's always raving about you, the famous Kudou Shin'ichi, the brains behind Nemuri no Kogoro!" sputters Kid.

It would, on another occasion, possibly be flattering. Now it's just irritating, and frustrating. "I'm a seven year-old kid with a 9pm bedtime investigating an international crime syndicate that kills people who _hear about it_. What did you think, I spent my recesses typing up the minutes from their meetings that I recorded on my secret network of bugs? I'm one detective, not the National Police."

Kid ignores his sarcasm. "Well, do the cops have a file on them? A squad?"

"Did you miss the part about _killing everyone who hears about them_?" He pauses. "Who did they kidnap, anyway? Can't be your friends or relatives; if they knew them they could have just taken you."

"They're not. They're … they're the kids of the Kaitou 1412 Task Force."

"They kidnapped _cops' kids_? That's crazy!"

"I'm aware," says Kid sourly. "I figured we had to be dealing with a bunch of nut jobs. Can't say I'm relieved now."

After his immediate shock dies down, though, it only takes a few seconds to figure out their angle. And then it makes sense. A horrible, cutting, burning kind of sense.

"They're not nut jobs. That's the problem. They're cold, ruthless bastards who thought this all the way through. Think about it: They've picked the only people who could control the investigation. I'm betting the Task Force is playing this close to the chest: probably haven't told Section One about the ransom demand because they want to be able to run the case themselves. That's perfect; no paper trail, no cops outside the Task Force in the know. Now, the cops've got two options to deliver the ransom. Either they somehow manage to capture you with public knowledge, and then you disappear from custody and everyone involved keeps their mouths glued shut to keep from losing their jobs and getting arrested – and even then it'll come out eventually when you don't face trial, and the cops who know anything will go away for a long time. Or, they capture you on the sly or make a deal with you and hand you over, and again they're all forced to keep the silence or face getting fired and arrested. Whichever way they follow, they're forced to commit a serious – to say nothing of terrible – crime."

The Kid says nothing. Conan can't tell whether it's because he's already figured this out for himself, or because the deductions have floored him.

"I suppose," Conan says at last, trying to work out a solution, "I could try to get in to get a look at the crime scenes." Even as he begins, though, flaws begin to set in, a windshield slowly cracking outwards from the weak point. "But Section One'll have been all over them by now, and although piecing things together gives them trouble, they don't usually miss evidence. And since in this time-frame pretty much the only thing we could pick up at a crime scene that would be actually helpful would be a frickin' sign saying 'we're staying at the Bates Motel, 666 Murder Avenue,' I doubt if it's worth it." He ends up spitting out the words, throwing them like knives into the empty park. "These guys are professionals. There won't be any clues. No mistakes, not in something as simple as a kidnapping." _We're screwed_. The mantra echoes in his head over and over, church bells tolling a death.

"I'm so glad I came to talk to you," says Kid, dripping sarcasm not quite covering iron-hard irritation, frustration. He stands, stepping out from under the roof in one sharp stride.

"I'm not giving up," says Conan, sitting up, voice with enough edge to it that Kid stops. He speaks without turning, shoulders blade-straight, chin high.

"Aren't you? You're saying these guys've got us beat before we've started. Sounds pretty defeatist to me, and I can't afford that. Those kids can't afford it."

"Look. My one goal in life – in this goddamn pint-sized life – is to take these bastards down. I don't want to see them hurt anyone else again – ever. I'll do everything I can to stop that from happening, with or without you. But you need to know, it's been a year and I'm not any closer to catching them now than I was at the start."

Kid stands stone still while he speaks, Hattori's dark skin and clothes blending with the perpetual dusk of light pollution, just another shadowy feature of the park. He is standing with his head tilted up again, as if stargazing through the thick blankets of cloud.

As Conan finishes the blanket parts and, just for a moment as if by Kid's direction, moonlight streams down thick and bright and catches his eye as he turns back, and somehow Conan's said the right thing without meaning to.

"You're no closer to catching me, either," the thief says lightly. No trace of the anger from a moment ago.

"So what? Set a thief to catch a thief?"

"You set and I thieve. Or put these bastards out of commission, as the case may be." He makes no attempt to hide the intensity in his voice, to pretend as he usually does that the only emotion he knows is carefree confidence. It's unnerving, watching the moods flit across his face and knowing that it means the thief's lost his anchor and is free-floating on a violent river with, possibly, a waterfall at the end the size of Niagara.

"Alright." He would have agreed anyway, whether or not Kid cared. It shouldn't matter that the thief clearly has a personal stake in this. But it does. "I'll need the names and addresses of the victims. A copy – _not _the original – of the police reports on each. We are not going to bring Section One down on ourselves. Agreed?"

"Hey, my police friends are a consequence, not the goal, of my heists," says Kid, in an injured tone. Then, more seriously, "I'll keep it on the down-low."

"Right. We'll also need the phone records from the ransom demand; that includes transcripts, call tracking report and the report on the phone itself."

"Sure," says Kid, a little too lightly. Conan shoots him a glance, but sees nothing suspicious. Of course, if the thief didn't want him to, he wouldn't.

"Anything else?"

"Yeah," he says, eyes sharp. "How did you hear about this?"

"'Fraid that's a secret," is the Kid's answer, with a smug grin. He's got his control back, bottled up whatever he's feeling and hidden it away, and the poker face is back in play.

"Meaning you've either got a contact inside the Force, or – what?" He straightens, spine snapping. "Did they contact you? Nothing in the newspaper, but…" Kid's face gives away nothing, set in his traditional smirk, all smoke and mirrors. "If they contacted you, if they asked for your help – and someone finds out…"

"It's wonderful that you've got the compassion to waste worrying about every little detail of other peoples' lives, Detective. But it's irrelevant. It doesn't matter how I know, just that I do – and now so do you." He shifts his posture in a way that means this meeting is over. "Do you need me to walk you home?" he asks, grin splitting into a toothy smirk.

Conan lets his glare answer for him.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early – say 7 – here, with the information. Don't worry about school, I'll take care of it."

"Yeah, I bet you will," he grouses. Kid nods, smirks once more, and disappears in a cloud of smoke.

Conan remains sitting on the bench for another five minutes, letting the situation sink into his brain. Then he goes home, calling the Professor as he goes.

_We are so screwed_.

TBC


	4. A Hole

Notes: Some people have been asking whether Hakuba will make an appearance. The answer is no, because_ I don't care for him_. Really, he doesn't appear enough that I feel I have enough of a grasp of his character to work him in either helpfully or convincingly. Also, I just… don't find him that interesting. Sorry, Hakuba fans. You can look forward to Aoko, though. In about 5 chapters…

* * *

Even before Kaitou Kid came barging into his life, Kuroba Kaito never needed much sleep, never stuck to a rigid cycle. It's served him well as the moonlit thief, and it's serving him well now, even though he's not sure who he's supposed to be.

He's wearing Kaitou Kid's clothes, silk rustling in the wind as he glides over Tokyo. The monster of a city is all fluorescence and steel, so he navigates by landmarks – the pink of Tokyo Tower, the shining towers of Disney Land, the rainbow Ferris wheels glowing brightly here and there like earth-bound stars, if stars were ever so colourful.

It's Kaitou Kid who's been called in, who's been threatened, in whose name children have been taken and families terrified. It's the thief who met the squad of men dedicated to catching him on the roof of their own building and listened to them beg for his help. It's the thief who met his smartest rival, pulled him out of his bed and, though not in so many words, begged for _his_ help.

But under the white and blue silk, top-hat and monocle, it's Kuroba Kaito whose heart is clenched in petrified terror, because Aoko is one of the taken, and Aoko is beautiful and smart and – worst of all – brave. Because Aoko will not let others be hurt in front of her. Because her bravery means she will be the first to be hurt.

To be killed.

It's only when his jaw starts to ache that he notices he's grinding his teeth so hard it's audible even in the slick wind created by his passage through the relatively still night air. He forces himself to stop, to focus on seeking out the currents that will carry him back most efficiently to Police HQ. As soon as he stops concentrating on it, he's starts again.

The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Headquarters is one sky-scraper in the centre of a forest of sky-scrapers. He comes in from the east and lands on the nearest neighbouring building. The Seisan Building holds the offices of Naoka Plastics, Ishimoto Glassware and Tsurada Publishing, as well as numerous other small-fry. He memorized the immediate surroundings of the Police HQ – as well as the main precinct buildings and those most called on by the Task Force – a long time ago. The knowledge is just as accessible to him as how to integrate a function, or to find the mole of any given element, or to conjugate "to be," or any of the hundreds of other things he learns in school. He makes no distinction in his education, places no greater value on what he learns as Kuroba Kaito or Kaitou Kid. It's all of equal value, if not always equal use.

The Seisan building is taller than Police Headquarters by two stories, and as such he has a good view of the roof. And the cop dressed in black squatting in the shadow of the stairwell, back hunched in a way that suggests he's carrying something in his lap. Quite possibly something like his sidearm. A tranq. rifle, if he's lucky.

Stomach cold, Kid reaches up to his monocle and adjusts the dial at the side, squinting. The Seisan building also happens to command a view of the Squad's office, and Nakamori's beyond.

The lights in the Inspector's office are out, but the Squad's are on. He hardly needs the magnification provided by his monocle to see the team of Division Two officers searching through the Task Force's cabinets and desks.

He keeps watch for several minutes, squatting up against the roof's edge, but it was clear from the moment he glanced at the office that this is no search and seizure. It's a slow, meticulous examination of the Task Force's files, and unlikely to be finished in the next few hours. As if he had that kind of time to waste. He dials the magnification of his monocle down to zero and looks around, running over the map of the landscape in his mind's eye as he does so. Finds what he's looking for.

Well-trained as they are, his muscles are beginning to protest this seemingly endless night, this downward spiral of events that is drawing him down deeper and deeper into fear and allowing him no rest to deal with it. He hurries over to the south side of the building, catches sight of what he already knows to be there, and leaps. The glider struts slide out a moment later, wide spread of canvas catching the fierce updraft from the Seisan building's hot air exhaust with a noise like ripping paper. He rises, soaring like a hawk on a desert thermal until he has the height he needs to swoop around the side of Police HQ in a broad curve, attention split evenly between steering and searching for the window he wants. He finds it, counting panes furiously as he loses height in the dead air in the lee of the building. Passes it in a flash of white, own reflection shooting like an arrow along the dark glass of the 25th floor. Division Two's Superintendent Higashiyama's office is dark.

Finding someone helpful sequestered with the Superintendant was a long shot, but now he's without a ready source of information. Something has clearly gone down regarding the Task Force, something that resulted in an internal investigation. And a sniper on the roof. He's perfectly aware of the only likely explanation. Nakamori was caught meeting with him. Stupid, to hold it on HQ's own roof.

No. Just desperate. Prepared to muster whatever resources, to fetch whatever files might be needed at the drop of the hat. The files he's come back for, only to find no one here to dig them out for him.

Sneaking into Police HQ is nothing new and exciting; these days it's not even a meaningless thrill, just a lot of extra work with minimal pay off. He could be in the Squad's office in half an hour, but it's a given that security – there especially – has been tightened, and just thinking about the mental and physical agility that would be required makes him sink in the glider's harness. Two a.m. passed while he was soaring over the bright lights of Shinjuku, and even without the physical strain of flying between cities twice in one night, the emotional side has ground his stamina into ground. He feels as though he's been crushed into thick mud, unable to get up, with an unmovable weight on his back. He needs to get the files, to round up any information that might have a speck of gold dust in it. He's only got five hours until he meets Kudou – Conan – whichever. Only twenty-two until midnight. He needs to sleep, and he has no time to do it in.

If he goes into Police HQ now, he will be caught. And that's not an option.

Taking in a deep breath and holding it until his chest aches, he tilts his body and pulls the glider into a turn. Leaves HQ behind him and drifts south on weak currents. Towards the bay.

* * *

Closer to the bay the night breeze is stronger, and he's able to pick up some of the speed he's been missing, sheering time off the trip. It's just past three by his watch when he drops down onto the roof of a hideous beige apartment complex. It's the tallest building within close range of Nakamori's house – Aoko's house.

If the Squad's under investigation it's a certainty that Nakamori is too, that the Inspector's phones are being tapped and, quite possibly, his movements watched. Kid gives the neighbourhood a thorough look-over, aware as he does so that his hands are almost trembling, and sees nothing.

All he wants is to drop down on the roof – it would be so easy! – and end this endless night. But even exhausted he can't swallow that kind of slackness, and so he gives the house a wide berth and sticks to the shadows of the taller buildings as he swoops over the neighbourhood to land on another apartment complex with an opposing view. Scans the area again, eyes beginning to blur, and again sees nothing.

He hates himself for knowing he can't trust himself right now. Can't take the easy option, no matter how appealing it is.

In his haste and frustration he dives down steeper than is supportable in the thin wind, forces a scrambled landing and skins his knees. Cursing, he pulls off Kid's clothes, balls them up in the mantle and carries them along under his arm dressed in his Hattori outfit. He pauses under an orange streetlight and pulls out a mirror, adjusts the make-up he's still wearing into a face with different lines than the Osakan detective's but with the same dark colouring. It's a benefit, at least, for slipping into the shadows in the poor light. He wonders how often the other boy has taken advantage of that fact.

The Nakamoris live in a lower-scale neighbourhood for houses in Tokyo, but considering what living in a higher-scale one would cost it's not at all surprising. They've never had much money, he knows, Aoko forced to penny pinch with her clothes more than she'd ever admit. It's lucky she's got the brains to get into a top public school with low fees, instead of an exorbitant mid-range private school.

He's always thought, in a fuzzy and not very self-aware way, that he'll change that for her someday. The sentiment burns in his throat now.

The house is tiny. Cramped and mildly rust-stained, it clings desperately to a tiny strip of yard which is currently entirely in the shadows. Kid knows, however, that it's been carefully tended and staked out to yield the maximum number of vegetables while maintaining bright patches of flowers tucked economically into the corners and the most awkward spots. The neighbouring homes are prouder affairs, standing tall with roof tiles that shine in the now-thinning moonlight. Beika's storm front is moving in.

He skirts around to the house which backs on to his target; from there it's easy to slip through the narrow side path into the adjoining yard, hopping and skipping over stray potted plants and water buckets. The larger yard he exits into is in the shadow of its house and he's forced to navigate entirely by feel, pulling back when his foot sinks into damp garden earth, tripping over a thorny bush and cracking his ankle against a jagged rock. Hissing between his teeth he finally reaches the back fence which, predictably, has a thick row of shrubs growing along its length. He tests the strength with his fingers, finds it strong and firm. He drops the bundle of his clothes on the ground, and leaps.

It costs more than it should for him to scramble up to the top of the fence, but once he's up he squats easily on the thin wood, balancing without thought or issue. Sits crouched like an alley cat and peers into Nakamori's yard. Not that he needs to. The man is sitting on his porch, back-lit by a dull light from within the house. A still-glowing cigarette lies on the porch next to his leg, forgotten. He's staring, wide-eyed, straight at Kid.

Kid, watching the shadows rather than the inspector, jerks his head and hopes the moonlight is strong enough that Nakamori catches the movement. He certainly pulls himself together enough to grab up his cigarette and stub it out in the ashtray next to him. He stands jerkily, lack of coordination suggesting either a moderately debilitating state of drunkenness or more simply dizzy emotional exhaustion. Or both. He makes it across the yard without trouble, though, picking up momentum as he goes so that he's standing straight with stiff shoulders by the time he reaches the fence to look up at Kid.

"Are you being watched?" Kid doesn't look down, continues scanning the deep shadows on either side of the house, keeping his eyes off the buttery glow seeping out from inside to protect his night-vision. If Nakamori's surprised at his ignorance of the situation he doesn't say anything.

"There's a pair out front, another doing a roaming sweep of the neighbourhood." Nothing closer. That the Inspector knows of.

"I need some files." He pulls a folded scrap of paper out of an inside pocket and hands it down, held carelessly between two fingers. Nakamori takes it and opens it with a quiet crackling whisper.

"Can't read it out here. What?"

Kid tells him, feels absurd sitting on Inspector's back fence making clandestine requests in someone else's voice and face. As though it's any less absurd than his usual acts.

"Can you get it?"

A considering pause. Kid's close enough that he should be able to see every line of the Inspector's face, to read him like a book. But the light's bad, and the man's in a bizarre mood, and he's _tired_. Gods, he's tired, and still miles to go before he sleeps. Damn poetry; only ever remembers it at inopportune times. It seeps unwanted into his brain, thin and bright like gasoline in water.

"I can't, but … I can arrange it. Could, if I had a clean phone."

"While I'd love to lend you mine, Inspector, I'm afraid that's a little too far across the line." As a matter of fact, Kaitou Kid doesn't have one; Kuroba Kaito's is safe at home on his desk. He might be a bright kid, but he still _is _a kid, and arranging and juggling cell phone contracts like beanbags would raise too many eyebrows. Not to mention the fact that with the constant improvements in tracking their calls it's much too risky. Kid sticks strictly to pay-booths: old-fashioned and embarrassing but safer. "I could carry a note for you." He says it with neutrality because, although he needs to be open to these options, playing errand-boy would be exhausting, and probably eat away the rest of the night.

Nakamori's silent for long enough that Kid looks down at him, catches a glimmer that tells him the Inspector is staring straight at him. Evaluating. He's a born actor, has nothing to worry about in the hours of daylight, but here Nakamori's judgement will not be made based on what he sees, or even hears, but what he imagines. And for a man with such boundless commitment, he's got a surprising measure of kindness. To which Kid himself can bear witness.

"What you got wouldn't be worth the effort you put into it," he says at last, gruffly. "I can – wait," he pauses, and Kid hears the rustle of his shirt as he stiffens. "You can make the call from a payphone. Make it as me."

The thought hadn't occurred to him, and that says a lot about just how worn down he is. But Nakamori's already walking across the yard. Kid stretches, muscles cramping, feet beginning to turn numb from overly-bent ankles. Nakamori's back in a minute, holding up a piece of paper – the same one Kid gave him a minute ago.

"The number's for a friend of mine in the Admin Bureau, Lieutenant Toshibu. Tell him what you need, and where to have it dropped off. He'll be able to get it, but it'll take a few hours. There's a full investigation going on at HQ."

"I know," says Kid, in a tone which is meant to be light but merely comes out as tired. Nakamori shifts again.

"You'd better come back after you make the call and tell me how it went – if it comes down to it I'll need to know what I said."

"Just tell them I did it."

"As far as the investigation's concerned, we never met. You are not involved."

"You think you can bluff your way out?"

"I think we don't have hell of a lot of options." Nakamori's voice is sharp and biting, but Kid's fairly certain the anger isn't directed at him. Fairly certain who it is directed at. But this is all damage control, and they don't have time for that now. There will be time to pick up the pieces later.

"Alright. I'll make the call."

"Don't get caught."

Kid grins, more out of habit than anything else. "No worries there, Inspector."

* * *

He walks slightly crooked, knees complaining at their long compression. Too bad his family's not got much interest in tradition of the regular kind; never had much call for practicing _seiza_.

The nearest payphone is three blocks away in front of a 24-hour convenience store. He keeps his head ducked, face in shadow, as he dials the number scrawled on the back of his own note.

It rings four times, then goes to the answering machine. He curses, hangs up, and dials again. It takes another two times before there's an answer, halfway between sleep and rage. "_Hello_?"

"Toshibu? It's Nakamori." He realises suddenly he has no idea of the man's first name, doesn't know what to do if someone else has picked up the phone, if he's just given himself away.

"Inspector?" Irritation retreating into confusion. Kid sighs, tilts his head and adjusts his throat.

"Listen, Toshibu, I need a favour. A big favour."

"Something to do with Section Two turning on itself? What's going _on_? The rumours are running high 'n wild." An older voice, with just a hint of a Kansai accent.

"There's been an incident…" here his own emotions clog up his throat, forcing him to cough and then clear it. "Kidnappings. Aoko, and four other kids from the Squad. Sawara's wife."

"God," hisses Toshibu on the other side of the phone, low and stunned.

"Section One's investigating, but … look, the less you know, the better. Can you get copies of some files for me? You'll have to root them out from the internal investigation team; I don't know who's running it." Nakamori probably does, but he didn't think to ask. Damn, but this is sloppy. "It's urgent, Toshibu," he grinds out, with no idea how close he is to stringing the man along, no idea of his connection to Nakamori. How big a favour he owes.

"Right, sir," comes the answer, curt and clipped and ready. Kid blinks, caught off guard by the readiness. It takes an effort not to stammer.

"Then this is what I need. Got a pen?"

"Just a minute… okay, sir."

"Copies of all the records of a call made to my office phone yesterday evening. The reports on the kidnappings for," he pauses, pulling the names out of his memory with only a sliver of effort, "Oogawa, Sawara, Yamamoto, Takarai, Washio. My own as well," he adds in a slight afterthought.

There's a long pause on the other end, longer than it would take to write the names down, but he can hear heavy breaths. Then a terse, "Yes, sir."

"How soon can you have them?"

"It'll take me a while to track them down and get the authorisation. Say three hours."

Kid glances at his watch. 3:18. "Alright. You'll have to drop them somewhere, I can't pick them up myself." Somewhere nearby, somewhere on his way to Beika. Somewhere empty enough at six thirty in the morning that a forgotten envelope won't be immediately noticed. "Do you know the apartment complex by my house? Fourteen floors, beige, across from a laundromat and a ramen shop? Tower Hills." Not a great description, but it's the tallest building in a two block radius and nothing else is coming to mind.

"I can find it, sir."

"Leave the reports in a corner of the garbage enclosure in a brown envelop. I'll call you if I don't get them."

"Yes, sir. And, Inspector if you need anything else…" It's not an empty offer or simple office brown-nosing. It's immediate and genuine. Suddenly, this begins to feel like a trespass where it never has before. He's never imitated anyone for any reason other than to confuse, to give orders to direct situations away – or, on occasion, towards – himself. This is different, this is personal and trusting. _Should_ be personal and trusting. With a sour taste in his mouth, Kid forces himself to answer.

"Thanks. I'll keep it in mind."

"Right." There's a click, Toshibu doubtless hurrying off to get started on the task Nakamori's given him. Kid wonders who Nakamori is to the man, that he's willing to risk his career for him. Willing, and _eager. _

He hangs up the phone with a heavy hand, click quiet in the thicker silence of the lazy neighbourhood.

Wishing his head were clearer, he pads back to Nakamori's fence.

* * *

Nakamori's ready for him this time, sitting dark and watchful on the edge of the porch. He crosses to the fence in one straight trip, standing with – Kid suspects although can't actually see – his arms crossed, under the thief.

Kid relates the conversation in short sentences, clean as old bones. Locks out all emotion.

"I figured it would be best to give an address near your house," he tacks onto the end, prompted by the ever-vigilant care which has kept him out of a cell this past year and more. But he seriously doubts that tracking him down is the first thing on Nakamori's mind now. Doubts it's in his thoughts at all. He's almost ashamed that it's in his, clothes clutched tight under one arm ready for a quick escape. Although at least less from Nakamori than his watchers.

"Makes sense," is the flat answer, giving away nothing. Probably, there's nothing to give away.

There's a long silence. Kid, legs aching, aware that it's almost an hour's walk from here to his home, current breeze not strong enough to carry him there with only a fourteen storey starting point; Nakamori caught up in his own thoughts.

"Three hours," says the Inspector eventually, "until the pick-up. Got somewhere to sleep?"

Not at all liking where this is going, Kid shifts, feels his traitorous legs beginning to fill with pins and needles. He could have made some easy quip before – _Kaitou Kid doesn't lack for beds to sleep in, Inspector_ – _you're not my usual type_ – _I'm sure I can rustle something up (leer)_ – but with his age no longer a secret between the two of them that's not an option. "Thanks for the kind offer, Inspector, but I have my own bed." It's the best he can think of, curt with an allusion to his mysterious home life to distract. He needs to get out now, he knows, end the conversation before it gets any further into already dangerous territory.

Accordingly, he stands, meaning to take an easy step off the fence into Nakamori's neighbour's yard. And, betrayed not by his balance but his muscles, tumbles forwards into the soft earth of Aoko's garden. He retains enough presence of mind to scramble immediately to his feet, cringing inside at the flowers he's doubtless crushing with the awareness of what Aoko would do to him for his clumsiness. If she were here. Fire burning in his gut, adrenaline spike momentarily driving all fatigue from him and replacing it with over strung tension, he feels Nakamori's hand fall on his shoulder and spins so fast he really does lose his balance. Tears himself desperately away and hits the fence with a dull thud, heart pounding and eyes narrowed fiercely, nearly snarling.

"Christ, kid," hisses Nakamori, "calm down." His voice is sharp enough to cut through the storm of emotions clouding Kid's mind, and even enough not to provoke him further. The kind of voice, in fact, used to talk to spooked horses and hissing cats. The thief forces himself to stand still, locks his joints and slows his heart. Tries to regain objectivity, control. "Come on," says the Inspector gruffly. "You'd better lie down for a while, you're in no state to be wandering around. Don't worry, I'm not going to take a sponge to you while you're asleep," adds the older man in a disinterested tone as he turns to stalk across the garden.

It might be the exhaustion, or the realisation of his need. Or it might be just a child's response to a strong parental figure. He follows the Inspector.

The light is still on, a guiding beacon in the darkness. Nakamori resolves from a shadow to a man wearing a dark blazer, back not quite straight. He doesn't pause at the door; takes off his shoes and goes straight in without looking back, somehow aware that to offer Kid a chance to argue his way out of this will be to lose him. Kid slips his shoes off, the only part of his costume he didn't bother to change when meeting Nakamori, and stands on the threshold.

He – Kaito – has been in the house dozens, hundreds of times. Used to chase Aoko through the hallways, used to be chased by her up and down the stairs. Has played board games on the floor of the front room and made snacks in the kitchen. He knows every room, every corner, every piece of furniture. But when he crosses the threshold, it still seems like the first time. A first something, at least. He's not sure he likes it, cold chills running down his spine, teeth setting themselves sharply.

The light inside the house turns out to be the kitchen light, barely illuminating the front room and casting the shadow of prison bars through the stairs' banisters onto the white wall beyond.

In all his visits to the house, he's never seen it like this. Silent. Eerie. Empty.

He follows Nakamori carefully up the stairs in the near-dark, remembering that he is not supposed to know the house, to know where they're going.

"Front room's too open. You can sleep in here; I'll get a futon." The Inspector switches on the hall light and throws open the first door on the right. Aoko's.

He didn't think about it, _should_ have, but that's just another drop in tonight's cup of regrets. There are only two bedrooms in the house, and Nakamori knows better than to press this odd trust by having Kid share his own.

He stands just inside the doorway, staring into the gloom. The dim light has sapped all colour from the room, rendered it artificially grey. It's been a couple of years since he's been here, and he can't pick out the true colours. There's nothing to do here that they can't do downstairs, Aoko said, front room better equipped with a table and television and closer to the kitchen, and her room is smaller and more cluttered. Really, though, she has simply grown into the age where having a boy alone in the sanctuary of her room is an embarrassing, awkward thing. Kaito, who would have to be subject to the embarrassing awkwardness, has been just as glad to stay on the first floor.

It hasn't changed much as far has he can see, the same foundations with different dressings. Aoko's bed stands along one wall, made neatly, bedspread a dark charcoal grey patterned with lighter mouse-grey flowers. A dresser with attached mirror stands against the opposite wall, a set of bookshelves next to it. At the foot of the bed a neat desk, Aoko's homework stacked carefully next to a curved lamp. Pictures and posters hang on the walls, enough to give the room a lively, cheerful feeling without cramping the small space. All of them coloured in a spectrum of ashes.

Kid – Kaito – walks over to the window without knowing why, retaining enough sense to keep his weak shadow off the drawn blinds. There's a row of glass figurines along the window sill, thin and fragile and bright as rainbows, he remembers. They've always been in Aoko's room, always here on the windowsill to catch the sunlight and throw it back into the room in peacock-coloured slivers. Always the only thing she wouldn't share, wouldn't let him near. They belonged to her mother, he knows. The mother who died when she was four, who Aoko must hardly be able to remember, who he never knew. Who Nakamori lost, just as he's now so close to losing his daughter.

_They're killers. I don't mean mercenaries or assassins. I mean they kill people who get in their way._ _What guarantee do you have that they haven't killed them already?_

_None._

The conversation echoes in his head, razor sharp against a dark thrumming background. He has no guarantee. No proof. No reason, even, to believe she's still alive. To believe, standing here in her bedroom smelling of rose and lavender, that she is not at this minute lying cold and limp and wide-eyed on some basement floor.

"_Fuck,_" he hisses, and slams his fist into the wall hard enough that the plaster gives way under it. Curses again as he grinds his knuckles harder against the cracking drywall, eyes screwed closed. Mask shattered into cutting shards and letting his emotions flow in freely. Strong enough to drown him.

He feels like pounding his fist into the wall again and again until it's slick with blood; he feels like climbing up to the top of the damn apartment and leaping off and engaging the glider so late his landing turns into a gritty, tearing, scraping roll; he feels like sinking down on the thin carpet and crying. He does none of these things. Stands stock still, fist in its impact crater, head leant up against the hard corner of the windowsill, back bent. Stands until his blood cools and his breathing slows. Then he drops his aching hand and turns.

Nakamori is standing in the doorway, a folded futon with a blanket and pillow piled on top in his arms. His face is set into one Kaito knows well, one Kid knows perfectly. He'd never suspected the Inspector had such a good poker face.

"You need some ice?" he asks, stepping into the room and dropping the bedding. His eyes are watching Kaito's, not his fist, not his tense stature. There is no rebuke there, nor any compassion. Complete neutrality, simple and unbinding.

"No. Thanks."

"I'll be next door." He turns and walks out without another word, not bothering to close the door behind him. He leaves the hall light on.

It's by that dull glow that Kaito unfolds the futon and lays the pillow and blanket, then arranges himself for the night – what little of it is left.

Three hours later, he is woken by Aoko's alarm. He's out of the house before Nakamori wakes, bedding folded neatly in the centre of Aoko's room. That and the hole in the wall are the only proof he was ever there.


	5. Interlude: Family Men

Notes: Like last week, since this update's short (and not, in fact, even a chapter) there'll be another in the next day or two. If you don't have some sort of kanji-reader available in your browser you might not get the names showing up properly, but by and large I think it should be alright.

_Interlude I, April 23rd: Family Men_

i. 大川 (Oogawa)

Tsubasa is sitting on the couch waiting for him when he finally gets home, a small knitted cushion clutched tight in bloodless hands, a dark bruise spreading down the side of her delicate face. She doesn't stand to greet him, stays crouched where she is, tense as a wire.

It is only later he notices she's stopped all the clocks in the house.

Almost the first thing she says, burning eyes on his worried face – he's never been able to hide anything from her – is, "I'll go to the bank tomorrow. Empty the safe-deposit box. Mortgage the apartment."

"They don't want money," he says thinly, leaning against the wall. As if the distance could protect her – or him – from this. Could soften the blow of what he's brought down on their family.

"Then-?" She has nothing else to suggest; they have nothing else of value. As if lives could be valued in currency.

Oogawa hesitates, duty and loyalty to his job, duty and loyalty to his wife, and simple guilt scrapping out a three-way battle in his gut. But with Tsubasa standing right here, watching him with shaking hands and a bruised temple, there is no contest.

"Kaitou Kid," he says, soft as snowfall.

Tsubasa gives a thin, involuntary whine and sinks back on the couch, eyes falling to stare dully at the wall.

"It's not just Emi," he adds, to fill the silence. "5 other children were taken. Including Aoko-chan. And," he adds after a pause, "Sawara Reina."

It's enough to break the barrier between them, unseen, unfelt, and he crosses to his wife in two swift steps and pulls her close. Gods, he feels for Sawara, all alone on the edge of losing absolutely everything.

"We should invite Sawara-san to stay here," she says, pressed against his shoulder, thoughts running parallel to his. He's never been so grateful for her strength.

"We'll get them back. The Inspector's got a plan."

"Kid's never fallen in with his plans before," she says, his loyalty to an ineffective superior still a sore point after all these years, all these years of following in Nakamori's shadow rather than leaving it to find recognition. He's never regretted it before, but as much as it burns it would be impossible to say he doesn't now.

"He's never let anyone die because of him," replies Oogawa softly, feels his wife shift against him.

"Can you trust Emi's life to a thief?"

He's been on hundreds of chases, has pursued the thief on foot, by car, train, 'copter and boat. He's seen the thief knock out a room with sleeping gas, trip up pursuit, bring down canvasses and debris on chasers. But he's also seen Kid bend over backwards to keep men from falling off roofs, even seen him catch one once.

And he's seen him take a bullet to the chest for a girl he doesn't know.

"I doubt," he says slowly, "I could think of anyone better."

ii. 山本 (Yamamoto)

He's always been good at waiting. Very few men who aren't make it more than a couple of weeks in the Squad.

This isn't waiting. It's agony. The slow, excruciating, drawn-out awareness of every passing hour, minute, second. Like dying of thirst in a desert, aware at every instant exactly what's missing, what's desperately needed. Equally aware of the end ticking closer as the sun crawls by overhead in the blazing sky.

Yamamoto never credited himself with much imagination, until now.

Yuka is in the bathroom, scrubbing the tiles in a desperate attempt to do _something_, to distract herself, to keep from _thinking._ She's already washed all the floors and cleared out the kitchen, and it's only 10 a.m. He says nothing. He's no better, kneeling at the table with a notebook fresh from the local convenience store open in front of him – not one of Nozomi's, he couldn't bear that, couldn't keep from flipping back to his son's writing, from losing himself in the childish strokes – painstakingly compiling a list of every police officer he's ever known. He's working his way down by rank and intimacy, starting with those best in a position to be helpful and who know him well enough to be willing. He's held several positions and has plenty of friends. The list is a long one.

He knows it's utterly useless.

Yuka comes back in from the bathroom, hands red and slightly swollen from the hot water.

They're caged like animals in the apartment, caged by their own fear, the fear of missing a call. They've both got cell phones, but outdoors there's a chance they might miss them, might not hear the ring, and they simply _cannot take that chance_.

"Do you have anything to be ironed?" she asks, twisting her hands, voice pitched so that it very nearly sounds normal.

He looks up from his pages of precise, detailed, worthless information.

"I'm sure I do," he replies, in exactly the same tone.

iii. 宝意 (Takarai)

"Shouldn't you be at the station?"

It's the fifth time this afternoon his mother-in-law has asked. Takako is beyond dealing with her, is sleeping a drugged sleep in the next room.

"I've been stood down, mother. I can't go in." The same words he's used the past 3 times. His reactions to her wore down long ago, frustration and irritation ground down to a flat, blank surface. It's the only way to deal with her, with the senility that began to settle over her mind like a fog not long after Shin was born. But now his reactions are rapidly sharpening to a point, strengthened by desperation and fear, and the fact that her confused mind has latched on with arthritic strength to the kidnappings but not to any of the subsequent events. _Why can't she forget?_ It may be the first time he's wished that.

Tired of sitting, tired of doing nothing – _tired of her_ – he gets up and pads into the kitchen. He's been waiting for the phone, hoping, praying, but there is no call. No escape. He fills the kettle and turns on the range, places the heavy pot over the blue flames.

The kitchen is calm, is as always the one calm place in a too-small, too-cramped, too-busy apartment. Here Takako's timid presence has asserted itself in tiny, cheery watercolours in wooden frames; in blue-and-white checked linen; in carefully ordered bottles and pots decorated with ribbons. He searches through the cupboards for tea and finds everything well-ordered, the only part of the house his mother-in-law doesn't constantly rearrange, the only space the boys don't spill their mess into. The only place, he supposes, he doesn't clutter up with papers and dishes and a thousand small things he's too busy to put away.

It's been a while, he suddenly realises out of nowhere, since he last saw Takako smile.

He spoons the tea leaves out into the tea pot, taking care to seal the tin and replace it where he found it with newly-astute hands, fitting it into the perfect niche left for it in the cupboard.

Too impatient to wait for the water to finish boiling, he pours it into the pot when it's just hot enough to spit as it rushes through the searing metal spout, spilling a small lake's worth on the counter. He mops the water up with one of the many matching tea towels, wincing at the heat of the water against his skin when he waits too long over the puddle.

The tea is too week and despite his reddening fingertips the water is too cool. He's never been much good at cooking, has always left that to Takako. That, and the cleaning, and the boys, and her mother… She's always been so happy to take care of him, to save him trouble.

He never realised just how little he's done to repay it.

Cooling, tasteless tea in hand, he returns to the sitting room. His mother-in-law looks up, face wrinkling in disapproval. "Shouldn't you be at the station?"

Takarai sighs, sits down. "No, mother. I've been stood down. I'll be staying here for a while to look after things." It's the least he can do.

For now.

iv. 鷲尾 (Washio)

He hasn't said anything, but he is furious, and his wife knows it. She's trying not to cry because she knows that upsets him, but she can't stop sniffling and that's not much better.

He's heard from the others; Oogawa's wife was knocked down protecting her child, Takarai's larger family was subdued with knock-out gas, Yamamoto's wife had run out to the store to pick up something for her husband's late dinner.

His wife just didn't wake up.

She didn't notice her own house being broken into, her child being carried off into the night. His daughter was stolen right out from under her without her even rolling over.

She's sitting straight as a board, trembling slightly. The silence is more cutting than anything he could say. Her own guilt and the weight of the blame she imagines is heavier than any he could put on her with words.

"Are you hungry?" she stammers at last, flinching from the biting silence. "I could make you some soup, or onigiri, or heat up yesterday's –"

"I'm fine." Tired of this half-assed confrontation, he stands abruptly, chair clattering on the cheap flooring. Turns and walks over to the balcony window.

Dusk fell a while ago, leeching away the colour from an already bland view of concrete apartment buildings and cheap dirt playgrounds. They've been saving up to move, to get out of this slum and into a better neighbourhood with better schools, better parks and playgrounds. He's lived here all his life, but he's damned if he'll let his daughter grow up here. He's always planned for something better for her. Something better than a bastard of a father and a depressed spend-thrift of a mother. There's a rustling from behind him. Then, sharp as glass:

"It's my fault."

He says nothing.

"I should have woken up. I should have fought for her. That's what you want me to say, isn't it?"

He says nothing.

"And if I had? If I had fought, and they had knocked me down and taken her anyway, just like they did with all the other mens' children, would you be talking to me then?"

He stares out at the falling night, and says nothing.

"When she comes back, I'll apologize to her. Apologize until she's sick of it, until she tells me to stop, because I couldn't be a mother if I didn't. But here and now between us, I have nothing to apologize for. You never wanted that in me."

It's true. He married the woman she was, a proud and haughty almost-idol who led him a damn long chase. But that part of her seems to have wasted away with age or marriage or childbirth, leaving her a dry, shrivelled, whimpering thing trying to appease itself anyway it can, and he has no patience for that.

It's the first time in a long time he's heard strength in her voice and he turns to see her standing at the head of the table, pale and scraggly and bony in over-sized clothes. But there's a fire in her eyes that hasn't been there in years, and for the first time in a long time he gives her his whole attention.

"You'll get her back," she says, crossing her arms, and there is no question there.

"Yes. I will."

v. 鰆 (Sawara)

He sits on their bed all evening, flipping through old photo albums Reina put together, running his thumb over the silly embellishments, all the stamps and paper figures and stickers. All the pictures of the two of them, of her. Reina, laughing at him over crooked reading glasses. Reina, with her hair twisted up out of her face in a messy bird's nest planning the wedding on limited finances. Reina, dressed in white and glowing against his black tuxedo. Reina smiling at him from underneath a sakura tree, soft petals lying like snow in her hair and on her shoulders.

Reina, his wife, with her arms wrapped gently around the curve that will be their child.

He waits for 9 o'clock to strike and then pulls on his coat, wrapping it tight around him, and steps out into the cool spring air with a grim face.


	6. The Empty House

The park is not an ideal meeting place, and he's not in an ideal mood to meet. While not actually on Ran's route to school, it's not so far off that it would be inconceivable for her to appear around the corner at any minute to bust him for playing hookie. He escaped the apartment early under the cover of a Detective Boys' meeting, which Ran met with scepticism; she would have no trouble believing their staying up past their bedtimes, he knows, but no child will get up earlier than he has to for something that could be put off.

So he finds himself sitting on the platform in the inadequate protection of one of the supporting pillars scanning the sidewalks anxiously while waiting for Kid. Kid, who could be anyone from the old man practicing tai-chi by the sandpit to the highschool student waiting with his bike at the corner, checking his watch every two minutes.

"Waiting long?" says a quiet voice from directly behind him. Conan suppresses a start and rolls his eyes. Well, no, he couldn't be, because Kid will never appear in a straightforward fashion if he could conceivable startle instead.

Only vaguely curious as to what he'll see, Conan swivels. And, despite himself, is surprised. Kid's changed faces, from Hattori's dark skin and sharp lines to a more rounded, slightly gray one with a light scar running across an undefined cheekbone. What surprises him, though, is the fact that he's wearing the same clothes as he was last night: the Hattori-esque light jacket and jeans. Significantly more crumpled, shirt no longer tucked in but hanging long and loose, but undoubtedly the same clothes. It's the first time he's ever noticed a sign of slackness in the thief.

He says nothing, but Kid apparently reads his thoughts from his glance and shrugs. "I've been a little busy," he says. He is, Conan notices, carrying a canvas messenger bag with bulging sides. "Give me your phone," he adds, without explanation. Conan boggles at the thief's out-held hand. "Unless you'd rather your teacher calls the old man to track you down?"

Gritting his teeth, he pulls out his phone from his own bag, hands it over. Kid thumbs through his address book, surprisingly without bothering to leer at some of the more interesting numbers in it. Finds the one he wants. "How predictable of you," he says, raising the phone to his ear. "But I suppose you call yourself in often enough."

Often enough that he sure as hell doesn't need Kid to do it for him. Isn't sure why he _is_ doing it; it's not as though he'll be impressed by another impersonation. And if this is the thief's idea of a favour… But, Conan – Shin'ichi, on occasion – has been saved by enough of the thief's favours that he can't fairly call him on it.

"Hello, staff room?" He may be immune to admiration, but no matter how many times he sees the thief do it, he doubts Kid's impressions will entirely lose their shock factor. Seeing a teenager speak in the old man's deep growl is no exception.

"Yeah, this is Mouri Kogoro. Edogawa Conan's guardian. That's right … He's got a cold, won't be in today. Thanks." He's got the style down pat, somewhere between apologetic and irritated, and trying to be neither. But then, the thief's played the old man for more discriminating audiences before, for a longer time at much closer quarters. He hangs up and tosses the phone back. "Right," he says. Pauses.

"Waiting for applause?"

There's a second of blankness he can't identify on the unfamiliar face, but the pause before Kid's usual attempt at wit is telling enough, and he feels himself growing serious in response.

"I wouldn't want to burden you," is the answer when it comes. "I can't help but wondering," he says in a different tone, and Conan realises he's been settled down to work this whole time, "whether this is the best place for this."

"I figured you'd have somewhere else in mind."

"Unfortunately I've been on a tight schedule. Not much free time to book a lair nearby."

"And Beika's not your base of operations." Conan means it as a help rather than an insult, and then wonders that he should be trying to offer him a conversational hand.

"No," concedes Kid, with a faint smile, taking it as meant.

"Come on, then." He stands and turns. Glances back. "I know a place."

"Figured you might," says Kid, with just enough smugness in his tone that says there was no figuring, only knowing.

"Someday you're going to get tangled up in all those strings you hold in your hand," he retorts, slightly vexed.

"I think I already have." Kid's voice is cold and flat.

What little light-heartedness he had washed away by an icy sea, Conan says nothing. Slips down from the platform and leads the way through the streets to his house.

* * *

The heavy flower pot moved to stand by the door by the Professor is filled with very straggly pansies, and Conan scrambles up on it to reach the high lock with no guilt. Kid, behind him, says nothing, and he has no sense of sympathetic eyes watching him, which suits him fine.

It's been more than a month since he was last here – with the Professor collecting his mail and the phone messages forwarded to his cell's mailbox, there's really no need to visit. None, except the desire to be reliably alone, to be somewhere that feels like home, to be somewhere where, at least for a few hours, he is not seen as a seven year-old. But the change between school years is a busy period and he's not been able to rake together the time to come by. Not to mention the danger of him being noticed constantly entering and exiting the Kudou household.

One of the few benefits of camping out permanently at Ran's apartment is that he has become accustomed to the smell there as normal, and so can appreciate the scent of _home_ when he steps into the entranceway. Home smells like old books and violin rosin and, these past several months, dust.

He had wondered whether Kid, despite his apparent descent into severity, would whistle at the tall entrance hall and unusually roomy proportions of the Kudou home. But the thief shows no sign of inordinate interest, and Conan supposes that to someone who's held gems in his hands worth several times the value of the house and all its contents, things like this must lose their value pretty quickly. That, or Kid's no stranger to domestic grandeur.

After kicking off his shoes he leads the way through the musty hall to the dinning room, set with a western table and six chairs for his parents' lavish dinner parties. It has seen no parties for more than a year, but apart from the thin layer of dust it's no worse for the rest. He wrestles a chair away from its dock, realising as he does so that he's never sat at this table as a child. Not since the first time around, at least. Kid whips one around for himself effortlessly and sits, depositing his bag on the tabletop. Coughs in the cloud of dust it raises and wipes at the dull cherrywood with a sleeve. He makes no comment, simply digs into the satchel and hauls out a thin stack of files.

"Here. This is the call transcript, the tracking data, the phone information, the reports on the kidnappings," he puts the files down one after the other, each in its own manila folder neatly titled. Even after the removal of the files his bag is still full-sided, filled with gods know what kinds of tricks and traps.

The files, however, are genuine copies of police reports direct from Tokyo Section One's head office, Section Two in the case of the calls. And it doesn't take much page turning to realise someone's been filtering the information given to Section One, filleting the reports and passively – at least – hampering the investigation. He turns a sharp eye on Kid.

"Something's going on here," he says flatly.

Kid, who has been leafing through a file of his own, looks up, false face blank.

"Really, Detective?"

"None of Section One's reports contain any mention of the ransom call. Someone's been pulling wool."

"Implying I hold that level of power within the Force is flattering, but untrue."

"I wasn't implying it was you," he says, ignoring Kid's levity. Conversing with the thief is like walking on very shaky ground, footing constantly shifting. At least until you realise that his quips are nothing more than an accent, thrown in to distract the easily-misled and create an atmosphere. He doubts the Kid notices he's doing it, it's probably more a habit than anything else. Which explains the mixed signals he was picking up in the park. The only way to deal with him seems to be to discount everything but the bare bones of what he says. "Either Section Two's been purposely impeding the investigation," Conan continues, "or the Organization's got damn deep hooks into HQ."

"The Organization?"

"We have to call them something, and that's as good as anything else we've got." He says it defensively, expecting a comment on his lack of progress. Kid says nothing, though, bright eyes apparently filing away the information.

"Well, I can't speak to their influence with the cops, but I can answer your question." The thief closes the folder he's been skimming through and hands it across. Conan notices, or rather takes on board for the first time his bare hands – so many fingerprints! – but surely Kid's taken precautions against that.

Conan takes the file, light compared to those he's been reading through, which are thin enough themselves, and opens it. Inside, attached to the folder with a paper clip are two pieces of paper. The first is an order, signed and stamped by Section Two Superintendant Higashiyama Yuki to accompany a confiscation of the Kaitou Kid Task Force's files and, if necessary, equipment. The second is a manifest printed in very small font divided into three columns, listing the confiscated material. It has the look of an unofficial list kept for the sake of order rather than official evidence. At first glance the confiscated files are simply those pertaining to Kid, but a quick read shows a more worrying pattern.

…

_File 2895 December 24__th__ XXXX – Theft of Tofu Department Store Tree Ornament_

…

_File 3011 March 12__th__ XXXX – Attempted Theft of Green Dream_

…

_File 3122 April 1__st__ XXXX – Attempted theft of Black Pearl_

_File 3125 April 19__th__ XXXX – Theft of Black Pearl_

…

_File 3201 October 12__th__ XXXX – Attempted Theft of Blue Wonder_

…

_File 3264 November 10__th__ XXXX – Attempted Theft of Sunrise Pendant_

_File 3265 November 10__th__ XXXX – Assault on Kaitou Kid_

_File 3265 November 13__th__ XXXX – Hospital Reports on Kaitou Kid_

_File 3265 November 19__th__ XXXX – Report on Kaitou Kid's Escape from Tokyo General Hospital_

…

"You see the pattern," says Kid almost glumly, without bothering to make a question out of it.

"I see that only heists the Squad was involved in are listed. No files even for the Sunset Mansion, or the thing with the Seiran painting, which were both pretty big news so it's not that they didn't know about them. Of course, they just might not have files on them."

Kid dismisses this with a wave. "Of course they do. You now how much paperwork the cops produce at the slightest chance – and you know how much they like to gossip. No. There aren't any files on me either – files compiling evidence about my identity, my M.O, my bases of operations." He lists the dangerous files off thoughtlessly, without apparent concern. But, Conan supposes, he'd never be able to get out of bed in the morning if he worried about that kind of thing.

"So the Superintendant suspects the Squad of making a deal with you."

"So it seems. But I'll deal with that later; I'm only telling you so you don't go haring off after the wrong target." There's an undertone there, but Conan sees nothing except round blankness on the thief's current face. Interesting as it is, he's right. They have more important things to take care of. He hands the file to the thief and looks back into the reports.

* * *

The only reports of any substance are the kidnapping reports which deal with accounts of the homes in the conditions they were found in, any and all possible evidence to a minute and unhelpful degree, and witness interviews. Well, _non_-witness interviews would be more accurate, no one having seen anything; the closest the kidnappers came to being noticed was a cleaner's cart on an apartment floor and a notice of unusual noise from a different apartment's neighbour.

All in all it's singularly unhelpful, but he hadn't really expected anything else. He reads each report carefully though, paying attention to every line and mostly ignoring Kid's fooling around in the kitchen. It would be nice to think that in light of this unspoken truce he could trust Kid not to pry into every corner of the house and quite possibly plant bugs a foot deep, but it's more that the lives at stake are more important than worrying about Kid finding out what kind of soy sauce he likes or listening to the long silences of the empty house.

The thief returns twice from his pillaging, once with two bowls of plain rice, one of which he offers to Conan – who ignores it, having already eaten – and again later with a box of the imported maple cookies his mother likes. The thief's eaten both bowls of rice and half the cookies before Conan finishes reading, leaving the detective wondering when he last ate.

"It doesn't look good," he says finally, closing the last file. Kid wraps the cookies away in their box with a crackle of plastic and turns to watch him, face blank. "No evidence of any value collected, no witnesses, no clues. Nothing gained from tracing the phone, which turned out to belong to Inspector Nakamori's daughter, one of the victims."

Kid says nothing, not moving except to breathe and even there his movements are minimal, stifled.

"The team investigating the docks where the call came from reported no evidence – not surprising – and no witnesses, also not surprising, but…" but there had been a possibility there, at least. More there than anywhere else. And now, they have nothing. Only the shrieking emptiness of a tundra, deadly in its openness.

"So we have no clues, no information on this 'Organization' other than what you know, and no way of guessing where they're holed up – if they're even still in the city. What now?" There's no sarcasm there, no reproof. Just a galling statement of the facts.

What now indeed. He's faced brick walls before, but there was always some way to get over them. More witnesses to question, more suspects to trick, more motives to dig out. And almost never has he worked with such a deadline. It's already 8:30, only 15 and a half hours left.

There's always Haibara, but he keeps that as a last resort. For one thing she's already told him as much as she's likely to about the Organization; anyway as a pet scientist it's not as though she'd have much idea where they'd be likely to keep hostages. But, more than that, he knows how jittery just having the Organization mentioned makes her. Knowing that he's actively involved in a search for them that has the potential to draw him to their attention… he can't imagine Haibara terrified – a woman who's been driven far enough to try to kill herself is not easily frightened – but it would unbalance her badly. This is starting to feel like he knew it would from the beginning, like trying to squeeze blood from a stone. A particularly apt phrase, in this case.

"Well," he says, and then trails off. Kid doesn't need false reassurances, and he can't give them anyway. As much a part of his life as it's become, he's never had much heart for deception. Maybe that's why he's chased the thief as hard as he has in the past.

"Well," echoes Kid. And then, in a lighter, empty tone, "I suppose we always have the option of just handing me over. Will they keep their word?"

"Don't be an idiot," Conan retorts immediately. "They'll kill you."

"That's not what I asked," says Kid, hard as diamonds. And then, softer, "I need to know, Detective." Kid's watching him with sharp eyes, waiting to weight the answer against his own conclusions.

Conan sighs, and lets his eyes wander to the table, tracing over the litter of files there. "They're not," he says slowly, eventually, words flowing reluctantly as a desert stream, "the type of people who break their promises for the fun of it, to brag that they never keep them. In this case… I can't believe that they would leave witnesses. But I can't believe they could expect the cops to keep quiet if the kids were…" he pauses, eyes narrowing. "If they lose the kids, the cops'll do everything in their power to put them down; bring the full weight of the Force against them. The only way this plan makes sense is if they take you and return the hostages, and no one ever knows what they traded them for. The cops would be blackmailed into silence by their own actions. But that makes no sense either," he finishes angrily, pulling tense fingers through his hair.

"Why not?"

"Because these bastards _don't_ leave witnesses. They tried to kill me because I _saw_ them. _Once_. No way are they going to let a whole pack of witnesses go."

"Maybe the kids never saw them. It's an Organization, right? There's gotta be grunts."

"Gin made the call, and he put one of the kids on. The kid said he was with the rest of them, so they're all together. With Gin." Simple math. A + B = screwed.

"He could've had the kid separated from the call, make him wear a blindfold or something…" suggests Kid, unenthusiastically. Even his tone says he's aware just how unlikely it is.

Conan digs through the records and turns up the phone transcript. Skims through to the part he needs. "The kid's a chatterbox, but … nothing about blindfolds."

"Or cars," says Kid, reading the paper sideways from his seat. "We're pretty sure the call was made from a car."

"Yeah. So the kid's just not talking about current events."

"He complains about the damn toilet conditions," argues Kid. "I doubt he'd keep quiet about a car ride, _certainly_ not about a blindfold."

"Maybe he was told not to mention them."

"Maybe he wasn't in the car."

There's a moment of silence, both of them struck by the suggestion.

"I suppose," says Conan eventually, putting their thoughts into words – something which suddenly requires much more attention than it should considering he does it all day long, "it could have been a three-way conversation. He could have brought in the kid on another phone and then cut him out when he was done. If it was through his line rather than a real three-way conversation, it wouldn't have shown up on the tracking log…"

"It would explain how they could expect to let the hostages go: they've never seen anyone important. The higher bastards are running the show at arm's length."

Conan flips through the call record again, then looks to Kid. "You heard the whole tape, right?"

"Yeah."

"When the kid was cut off, was it like –"

"A cut-off?" Kid blows out a breath between clenched teeth. Finally, uncertainly, he says, "I don't know. It was pretty abrupt, but whoever had the phone could've just stood up and given the kid a kick." He digs through his bag and produces the tape recorder of last night. Presses play and fast-forwards through a few seconds of tape. Inspector Nakamori's rough voice follows.

"_Let me talk to them. Nothing happens until then." _

"_Daddy?"_

A rustle of static as the phone is passed, and then a new voice:

"_Shin? Are you alright?"_

"_I'm okay, Daddy. Onee-san says we have to be brave. I'm being brave, Daddy! It's kind of hard, though. The men aren't very nice, and I'm in my pyjamas, and the toilet smells funny."_

"_Is your brother okay? Is everyone else okay?"_

"_Un. Nii-san has a runny nose 'n Haruko-chan scraped her knees 'n Onee-san hurt her head, but she's looking after Haruko-chan now. Oba-san's looking after Emi-chan."_

"_That's good. You tell everyone not to worry, Dad and the other–"_

There's a slight whisper of static here, and then,

"_That's quite enough,"_ cuts in Gin's voice, harsh and mildly disgusted.

Kid clicks the stop button, and the sound cuts out. "Well," he says, "that was damn inconclusive."

Conan nods, eyes focused on the table, or rather the direction of the table. He is, in fact, thinking too hard to be looking at anything. "It could be either. But, a divided call makes a hell of a lot of sense. In which case…"

"Can we track it?"

"No, but with the exact conversation times," he taps the phone trace, "the cops can search for all calls made at the same time. That would give us a number at least, and possibly a location."

Kid shifts. "Which cops're we talking about?"

"Well, since I can't exactly go into the station and ask Inspector Megure to run a phone check, it's going to have to be ones… you… know…" he finishes, seeing the pitfall Kid spotted several seconds before.

"Unfortunately, the cops I know are under investigation for misconduct. And I can't very well give it to Section One; if they happen to connect the dots it won't just be an investigation, it'll be a trial." Kid leans back, distancing himself from the whole mess, and stares up at the ceiling. "It's a last resort, and maybe Nak – I – could drum up someone to run the search off the books, but if there's another option…"

It's odd, the way Kid seems to care about the men dedicated to catching him. Is looking after them almost as if he were one of them. But maybe it's just a further manifestation of his policy not to injure or kill. Presumably, it's the same morals that have led him to take such an active hand in rescuing the hostages. Expensive morals, for a thief. But Kid can probably afford them. Or at least has until now; now they may break him.

Conan rustles through the papers, looking for a loose thread unravelled by their new theories. He finds it in the call tracking report, a fact striking him in force now. "The ransom call was made from Inspector Nakamori's daughter's cell phone," he says.

"Yes," replies Kid, strangely distant. Conan takes no notice. The thread is in his hands now, and he intends to give it a good pull and see what he unravels.

"They kept her phone; maybe they kept some of the others." He shuffles through the files. "Who's old enough to have one? Sawara-san, of course, no, no," he tosses out the two elementary school folders, "maybe," sets aside the middle school file, "_no_," tosses the preschooler. Opening Sawara-san's file and the middle schooler – Nozomi – he finds the pictures supplied by the families and turns them to Kid. "Do you know them?

Kid glances down without moving his head, still tilted towards the ceiling. "I've seen Sawara-san before, once – not to speak to," he adds in an _obviously_ tone. "Don't know the kid."

"So you have no idea whether he's got a cell phone or not."

"No. Why?"

"Most phones can only be tracked while in operation, as you know."

Kid nods.

"More recently though, a lot of companies have installed tracking functions in the phones as a safety precaution in case they're lost or stolen, or something happens to their owners. Most of the time they're not on, but if you call the company –"

"You can track the phone."

"Right. Obviously, it only helps if they've got their phones, and if their carriers offer the service…"

"What're you waiting for? Let's go!" Kid's out of his chair and to the doorway before he remembers he's in a strange house. Rather than roll his eyes, Conan scrambles down, grabbing the files as he goes, and follows. Directs the thief down the hall to the study.


	7. Hope

Notes: I meant to mention this last chapter, but I've been using Icka! M. Chif's information pages (1412, Ahou Calling) as a quick fact-finding resources instead of trolling through hundreds of chapters for one detail. Thought I should mention and credit those great pages (can't link them from , you'll have to google them).

Docomo, AU and SoftBank are Japan's three main cell phone companies. However, I fudged the details about GPS tracking; I have no idea whether any of the three offer it, or if theirs works in this way. ^^

I recently picked up some of the Magic Kaitou books to re-read and found that a lot of small details are inaccurate as to the canon (e.g. the Nakamoris, from their house, certainly don't seem to have any financial worries), so I guess you'll just have to consider this minorly AU. Because, you know, it wasn't already…

Finally, I should probably mention my use of English vs Japanese titles/suffixes, since I've not apparently stuck to a single system. In all cases where there is a concrete English equivalent term (detective, inspector etc.) I've used the English. This is partially because I don't see the need to use the Japanese when the English suffices, but also because it becomes hard to draw the line between simple terms everyone in the fanbase knows (_tantei_, _keibu_)and the more complex ones (_fuke-honbuchou_, _keishi-soukan_ etc.) On the other hand, terms which do not have a good English equivalent like the suffixes kun and san, and family terms used for non-family members (onee-chan, oba-san) I've left in Japanese since something is lost by any attempt to translate those/it just ends up being plain weird. I'm sure you were all very interested in this.

Oh, and a great thanks as always to all those who took the time to review; it's definitely appreciated!

* * *

Although Kid has never been inside the Kudou house, he's surveyed it from the outside while investigating his new opponent, and its grandeur doesn't surprise him. Nor does the old-fashioned western nature of its furnishings. He is also not surprised when the computer Conan brings him to is sitting on a heavy oaken desk covered with a leather blotter, sitting on a wine-red carpet with an elaborate floral border. He peeks through the adjacent doorway and smiles to find his suspicions confirmed; the study does indeed border on a library filled with dusty, hardcover books, complete with balcony and ladder on rails. How predictable.

The computer's pretty good, but a few years out of date; it must have been at least a year old when Kudou had his accident. With the detective's parents abroad – and what's up with that? – there's been no one here to keep the house's technology up to date. Or the cleaning, for that matter.

Conan establishes himself in the stiff leather chair – another predictability; the house is one big cliché, par for the course of a mystery writer and an actress's home, he supposes – behind the desk and boots up the computer. Kid filches the files on Sawara-san and Nozomi-kun from the pile and flips forward to the pictures. Reads their personalities, their traits, their voices, from the lines of their faces and their poses.

Meanwhile, the boy – and even knowing the truth about him doesn't make it much easier to know how to think of him, other than as dangerous – has the internet up and running, is scrolling through the sites of the cell phone carriers.

"Docomo and Softbank offer tracking, AU doesn't. That's a 2 in 3 chance, assuming their phones were kept."

"Assuming the kid's even got one." The file says nothing about it; there's no reason the investigating officer would have asked. It's not uncommon for middle schoolers to have them these days, and Yamamoto could probably afford it, but there are plenty of other factors to take into consideration and he doesn't know which way the man would lean on any of them. There's no way to find out without calling, and no way to do that without betraying the fact that the Squad called in outside help of some kind, since he can't bet on Yamamoto's phone not being tapped, and he can't call in as Nakamori from Kudou's phone when they're certainly tapping the Inspector's.

It was irritating before, but the investigation on the Squad is becoming goddamn suffocating. He doesn't have the time or the energy to spare planning his way through the thick web of tangles and snares created by the Superintendant's crusade. Every time he seems to be making some headway the investigation is there to block it off, kicking his legs out from under him and sending him tumbling back the steep hill he's climbing. Why the hell did the man decide to crack down now of all times?

Teeth grinding of their own will, he considers. He's decent with computers, good enough to break into password protected files, but he doubts he could hack into company records – certainly couldn't do it here, within the time limit. Jii-san's no help either; the old man embraces technology, but he's only worked up to the steam-age so far. Calling the wrong company as a client, or even a client's relative, would be fatal if they need to call back chasing down the second phone – they _need to know_ who the phones are registered with. "I suppose," he says at last, "that I could go track down the families. This would be much easier if we could just call them," he adds, frustration beginning to boil over.

"We don't have the time to be trekking back and forth between here and Tokyo," comes the boy's answer. "If we go, we'll be stuck there, and I doubt you'd want me in your secret lair."

Kid bridles at that behind the poker face, caught between irritation at the statement of facts he's well aware of, and measuring just how far he would be willing to go if it comes down to it. It seems stupid to flinch at giving the detective a clue – huge though it would be – to his identity when he's ready to risk his life for this cause.

If it comes down to it: how many times has he thought that already? If it comes down to it he'll throw away Nakamori's career, the Squad's careers, his identity, his life. With a hint of bitterness he can't quite hide, he spits out, "You have a better plan?"

"Other than the families, we have only one way to the information: the cops."

"Which we've already ruled out," points out Kid in a brittle voice.

"We've ruled out the cops _we_ know. But we have another contact with close ties to the police. You're wearing his clothes."

Kid blinks, looks down at the jacket and rumpled shirt he doesn't remember putting on. Shakes himself. _Wake up, dammit!_

"Hattori'll be in school by now, though," continues Conan thoughtfully without noticing the thief's silence.

"That's not a problem," says Kid grimly. "You know the name?

"Sure. Kaihou High School."

"Get the number." He nods at the computer, wracking his brain for information, winkling it out of corners and crevasses. Hattori Heiji, son of Hattori Heizo, Osaka's Police Director-General. He's seen the man once, during his run at the Memory Egg. Once was enough.

"Got it," says Conan, window showing a list of Osaka high schools. In the middle is Kaihou, beside it the number for the office and fax line.

Kid picks up the phone, a sleekly streamlined black cordless affair, and dials the number. Waits.

"Good morning, Kaihou High School staff room." Apart from a hint of Osaka-ben, it might have been the voice which answered at Conan's school. It suddenly strikes Kid as ridiculous that he's phoning around as everyone's father, like a damn party prank, but now's not the time for levity. Besides, Hattori Heizo has probably never felt any.

"This is Hattori Heizo." Deep and resonate, scraping the bottom of his range. He's forced to add in a hint of smoky gruffness to hide the unevenness. "There's been a minor family problem. Could you ask Heiji to turn on his cell phone and come home?" He almost adds _immediately_, but it's sure the teacher will do so anyway, and he doesn't need to worry the boy any more than he will have already.

"Of course, Hattori-san."

"Thank you." He hangs up, looks to Conan. The kid seems to be on the point of saying something, but thinks the better of it. He slips out of the chair and hurries out of the study instead, without a word. Kid sighs, slumps, resting tense muscles. But the quiet footsteps return almost immediately, cutting his break short. In the detective's hands is his cell phone, fire engine red with a soccer ball key chain. It's amazing how he can be so good at playing the child in some respects, and in others so completely incompetent.

The boy makes two tries, redirected to Hattori's mail box, before he connects. The phone's answered on the first ring. "Hello?"

"It's Kudou. Listen." The boy cuts through Hattori's attempts at putting him off. "I made the call to the staff room."

There's a beat of silence. Then a low question.

With the immediate urgency of the situation relaxed, Conan settles into the chair, head not even level with the top of the back rest. Now, having caught Hattori's attention, he's forced to explain. Any other day, Kid would be smiling like a cat.

"Well, actually, it wasn't me. It was Kid."

A louder question.

"He's here. With me, in my house." A squawk. "No, of course he's not holding me hostage. But… Listen, Hattori, I need a favour." The boy pauses, clearly weighing his options like sand between his fingers. Trying to decide how much to tell, how much to let slip away. There's no need for secrecy between the two of them, no possible reason not to tell him everything. Except to protect the Osakan boy, to give him the safety of secrecy from this shadowy Organization in their current hasty unprepared pursuit.

It tells him just how worried about this the detective is, even if he hasn't voiced any concerns for his own safety. Kid would feel a qualm – should feel a qualm – about this emotional blackmail, about introducing the boy into a case he couldn't refuse with his morals, if only there weren't lives at stake. Aoko's life at stake.

"There's been some kidnappings," the kid says at last. "Police officers' children. And the ransom is Kid."

A long silence.

"We might be able to track the kids through their phones – the kidnappers made the ransom call on one of their victims' phones, so there might be others. We have two victims old enough to have phones, but we need to know whether they do for sure, and what company they're with."

A quiet hissing.

"That's right. Got a pencil? I'll give you their names." He does so, checking the kanji by meaning and adding in addresses. "There's another complication," he tacks on when finished. Kid doesn't catch the words, but the Osakan's incredulous tone is unmistakable. "If at all possible, this needs to be done without the Tokyo police finding out about it. There's an investigation in Section Two for misconduct. We don't want anyone to know they went outside for help."

To Kaitou Kid for help.

There's a grudging reply, and then another stronger one.

"No," says Conan immediately. "No, I've got everything covered. Besides, you wouldn't get here long enough before the deadline to be any help." An all-out lie; Hattori could be here by noon. Kid's stomach tightens. "I've got it handled. But I need that information – as soon as possible." A good distraction. It seems to take. The Osakan agrees, and hangs up.

The detective puts the phone down on the desk, sighs. Then turns to Kid, eyes questioning. "What now?"

"Now," says Kid, glancing down at his rumpled shirt, "I take a shower. And you lend me some clothes."

* * *

There's something deeply personal about untidied bathrooms, and Kudou's is no different. Maybe it's the presence of mirrors and tiles which have seen their masters or mistresses naked so often that the secrets have sunk in and taken on a kind of presence of their own, almost as tangible as the towel rack or bath stool. Maybe it's just the presence of aspects of a person's life never seen by anyone except intimate friends, family, lovers: the half-used bar of soap, the dark hairs standing out like cracks against the white enamel of the fixtures, the cabinet filled with mysteries even Kid can't guess at.

Maybe the exhaustion's starting to get to him.

He toys with not locking the door as some kind of symbolic show of trust, but decides screw that – if he had no problem rummaging through the detective's cupboards, the kid's sure not going to have any with digging through his bag. Or trying to sneak a glance at his face. Active pursuit is out of the question, but after that the unspoken truce between them is on shaky ground.

Door thus firmly locked behind him, he drops his pack and Kudou's clothes on the floor next to it and makes a quick investigation of the cupboard under the sink and the medicine cabinet, more out of habit than real curiosity. Turns up only cleaning products and spare toiletries under the sink and current toiletries and a bottle of aspirin above. He snorts, disgusted with the detective's straight-laced life.

The mirror shows him that his face is wearing well, considering the haste with which he slapped it on, but he's already getting tired of its plain curves. Besides, he didn't take as much care as usual, and it's been itching at the edges. He peels it off gladly, folding it up and tossing it towards his bag; it lands like a jellyfish on the cold floor with a wet glooping sound.

In the spotty mirror, Kaito Kuroba's face is grey and worn, and pocked around the edges with mask powder and affixing glue. His dark eyes stare back at him, uncertain, worried. The eyes of a trapped animal, fearing the discovery that will come with morning.

He runs a hand through the drooping fields of his hair, nails digging furrows into his scalp. The cold fear that haunted his flight from Tokyo – an hour with nothing to do but think, the longest hour he's spent in years – is seeping back into him like water between the rotting boards of an old ship's hull. He has nothing to distract himself with here, alone with only his thoughts and, worse, his imagination.

He knows the success of the bastards' plan relies on the decent treatment of the hostages, knows it with the certainty he has in the funding principles of math, chemistry, physics. But facts are dull, flat things, and easily overtaken and forgotten in the bright vividness of the pictures his imagination paints for him. No nightmare is as terrible as them, because they hold the unbreakable, undeniable power of potential truth. Aoko's screams ring in his ears as her clothes are ripped, the thick copper scent of her blood pooling on the floor fills his nose, the coldness of her skin under his shaking hands ices his own skin. A thousand horrific scenarios play themselves out in the theatre of his mind, each in the blink of an eye.

Kid is pulled back to the present by the sound of his own voice, a thin keening whine that reverberates like struck glass through the bathroom. He comes to himself leaning over the smooth curves of the sink, round edges grasped tight in both hands, eyes staring unseeing at the metal cross of the drain-block. Slowly he lifts his heavy head to look at himself in the mirror again.

He's white and trembling, and panting as if he just ran a marathon, mouth hanging open. He looks, in short, terrible. "_Fuck_," he hisses, grinds the palms of his hands into his eyes until stars burst behind his retinas. Stumbling over to the tub, he switches on the heat and turns the shower tap on full blast, spraying his sleeve with water. He hardly cares, shucking the clothes off viciously, snarling when he catches his feet in the pants legs. He pushes under the shower head before the water's fully heated, catches a jet of cold water straight in the face and sputters. But it's already heating, and soon it passes lukewarm into hot. Kid settles under the stream and turns, lets the water pour down over his back, drenching his thick hair and running over his tired shoulders.

It's less that the hot water washes away his fears than that it wakes him up, jerks him all the way out of the dusk of fatigue where fears have huge shadows and into the bright sunlight of full wakefulness. Here he controls his dread instead of the other way around. Here, he can think properly, with the speed he should have. Here, he can be himself.

Here, he has a chance of success again.

He gets out of the shower and gets dressed with steady hands.

* * *

The detective's typing away on the computer when he comes downstairs, hair slicked back flat against his scalp, face tweaked into a longer, flatter one than his own by use of moulding clay rather than a mask this time. The kid gives him one look and then goes back to work on the computer.

"What's up?" Kid swings around behind him to look at the monitor. There are two windows open, one for Docomo, the other for Softbank. Docomo's up on the screen now, current page a member's registration form.

"We've hit a snag," he says, filling out the form under the name of Yamamoto Nozomi. "To track the phone, you have to be either the owner or _possibly_ a relative and have an account. We can fake the owner part, but the account's harder." He puts in another couple of lines and then, "How good are you at hacking?"

"You don't seriously expect me to answer that, do you?"

"I tried to create an account at both Softbank and Docomo using Sawara-san's phone number; it's already taken. Softbank's got Nozomi-kun's as well, and I'm just checking with Docomo, but…" He finishes entering the information, presses enter. The page changes, and the red text says failure even before he's finished reading "number taken, please re-input information."

"I'm guessing," says Kid after a few seconds, "from the fact that you asked if I could hack that you can't." It's not surprising; the boy's got no way to remain current scene without a computer, and nothing changes as fast as the net.

"No. I know someone who can, although he won't like it." Conan sighs, then picks up the phone. Dials a number from memory. "Ah, Professor? It's me. I need you to do something for me… yeah, it's about that. I'll need the names and passwords for one or two internet phone accounts in a while… Yes… Yes, I know, but it's important. If I had the time, I'd get permission. It's complicated. Right. I'll call you with the names and companies as soon as I get them. Thanks." He puts the phone back in its cradle. "Well, that's that taken – " Before he can finish the phone is ringing again at an ear-piercing volume probably chosen to be audible outside the study's thick walls. They both stare at it for an instant before the detective snatches it up, almost standing on the chair to do so. "Hello?

There's a long irritated exposition from the other end, in what he can recognize as Hattori's expressive tones.

"But you got the information?"

Affront.

"Good. And? Sawara-san's with AU – damn, you're sure? How about Yamamoto Nozomi? Docomo?" He sighs, and Kid does as well. There's still a chance. He hadn't realised how much he was blindly relying on this until he heard AU. "Thanks. That's great. Hopefully with this we'll be able to track them down. No, I'm managing fine. No – really. Thanks." He hangs up quickly, escaping the conversation in the quickest way possible. Either the Osakan Detective is exceedingly thirsty for cases, or he's something of a mother hen. Kid stores away the information with a smile. Grumbling to himself, the Detective calls through to the Professor and relays the information. Kid begins tidying up, putting the folders together and making a mental list of things to be done while he waits for the phone. The conversation only takes a minute, and when it's done Conan swivels around to face him.

"You'll call in as Officer Yamamoto?"

"Seems best. Got the number?" He has no idea what Yamamoto's wife is like, has never seen her. Of course, it's not like the phone company will know her either, but his sense of perfection rebels against that kind of falsification. The detective reads him the number and he punches it in, already slipping into Yamamoto's skin.

"Good morning, Docomo, GPS tracking desk."

"Good morning. This is Yamamoto Ashitomo. I would like you to turn on the tracking for my son Yamamoto Nozomi's phone; he went on a trip alone to Ibaraki-ken and got lost."

"I see, sir. Could I have his phone number and account password, please?"

"Sure." He takes the paper from the boy, reads off. "080-3829-2951. The password is exile, all small letters." Apparently the kid's a pop fan. There's a minute while the receptionist puts in the information, a clicking of keys. Then,

"Alright, the GPS function has been engaged. To view it, log in to the website with your son's account and follow the tracking link. Do you need the URL?"

"No, it's alright. Thanks."

"Thank you, sir."

He hangs up, glancing at the detective, but the boy's already logging into the account. There is, of course, the possibility that the boy doesn't have his phone on him, or that it's broken or turned off or – any number of things. The scam's high, not much more than a gentle wave of adrenaline to begin with, wears away.

On the screen, Conan finishes logging in and follows the "tracking" link. A map shows up, much like any of the regular internet map functions. It takes several minutes to load, lines slowly drawing themselves in and then refocusing. It is clear early on that the city displayed is Tokyo, but the map is zoomed out much to far to make any sense of the location. The detective slides the bar up several notches, focusing the camera in too far too fast, screen freezing. It takes nearly a minute to re-orient itself, shakily re-establishing the picture. Kid's jaw gives a flare of pain, and he realises he's grinding his teeth again.

"Where's Yamamoto's house?" Conan's watching the screen, staring as intently as a dog watching a rabbit, waiting to chase.

Kid doesn't need to look at the file, has it memorized. "Kita-ku." One of the wards on the border of the city, far inland.

The picture, when it resolves, shows the cellphone's location as a little red dot. It's near the bay.

The detective lets his breath out in a thin hiss, pausing for a minute presumably in elation before focusing in closer to pick up on the location.

Now, Kid realises in a lightning-like flash, he needs to figure out how to get rid of the kid. It's not going to be easy. In fact, it's going to be damn hard. Unless he takes the easy way out… his hands slip into his pocket, fingering the different sized capsules there. Smoke, homemade tear gas, and lying snug between them, knock-out gas.

"I suppose you're wracking your brains trying to figure out how to ditch me," says the detective coolly, and swings around in the chair. His eyes are hard behind the glasses – slate-hard – and watchful.

Kid smirks, shrugs. Slips into the easy movements of a jester rather than the lithe ones of a predator, a distinction which is clear in his mind. He brushes a stray hair away from his eyes. "I'd say you're wronging me, but…"

"But I'm not." The kid's tone is flat and sharp, a razor stropped on harsh experience, on being looked down on by those who don't know.

Kid shrugs again, this time in smooth acquiescence. "Don't misunderstand. It's not you I'm protecting." Getting the kid to Tokyo, then explaining away his presence would be troublesome enough. But carrying someone around with him who the enemy might recognise on sight would be fatal. Fatal, to Aoko.

"Protecting lives comes before personal vendettas," the boy agrees, watching Kid's hands like any good sceptic.

"Yes," says Kid, smiling. "It does."

It's too bad for the getective that he's not just any good magician. A tip of his head is all it takes to dislodge the gas pellet from behind his ear. It cracks open on the wood floor beside the carpet and seeps into the air, silent as mist at dawn. Kid is already holding his breath. The boy's eyes widen infinitesimally, and then lose focus sharply and slide closed as he slumps down in the chair. Kid has the files in his bag and is out of the room before his lungs begin to ache. Out of the house itself before his air runs out.

He should probably feel a pang as he hurries out into the street to catch a bus to the station. But all he knows is an edgy, cold relief.

There is still hope.

* * *

It's bizarre, but even under the makeup he feels far more naked than he ever has as Kid. Here, the line between the thief and Kuroba Kaito is thin indeed, and he's not used to having to run jobs under these circumstances. He's cased plenty of locations as Kaito, has done any amount of research as him, has even when no alternative presented itself run significant parts of a heist as the highschool student rather than the kaitou. The fact that he has no white silk on under his slack shirt and jeans should make no absolutely no difference. But somehow, it does. Because if he's not Kid, then he is by default Kuroba Kaito, and with Aoko's life on the line that's a dangerous place to be.

He picked up a street map of Outa-ku from the Beika Station information centre to study on the trip to Tokyo. He knows Tokyo perfectly from the sky but that gives him only a broad, blurry guide to the maze of streets and alleys that make up the crowded suburbs near the bay. The first thing he does upon unfolding the map is to pick out the phone's location, burned bright as a brand into his mind. The next is to plan his transportation backwards from the nearest station to Tokyo Station. A transfer and two long trips once he reaches the capital: it could have been worse, but it could also definitely be better.

Plan of attack steady in his mind, he sits back to memorize the neighbourhood.

The neighbourhood turns out to be, as he knew it would, a slightly run-down lower-class area. The narrow streets are lined with badly-stained corrugated-steel roofed buildings – cheap stores and restaurants on the ground storey, compact dwellings upstairs – interspersed here and there with the entrance to a covered shopping arcade smelling of fish and miso, and squat apartment buildings in stucco and concrete utterly without style. Near enough to the piers to have the rough feel of a dock-side neighbourhood while far enough away to be residential rather than industrial. One of the neighbourhoods a city of any size creates simply by existing. Not hard, exactly, but with a slightly uneasiness. A sense of watchfulness. The kind of neighbourhood strange comings and goings in the night would be ignored in, on Kudou's favourite principle of safety in ignorance.

Kid's thoughts flash to the detective, slumped in his chair, and smiles grimly.

He didn't bother with anything troublesome or eye-catching in his current disguise: it's just an ordinary face which is not his, a little older, a little plainer. A crowd of little facts which together equal a lot.

But around here, he's just another teen on the cusp of adulthood out of school, out of work. Dyed hair and baggy pants would have given him a better chance of fitting in, but he's not in a mood to deal with yankee culture. Hands in his pockets, eyes downcast, he plays the purposeless, depressed teen, filing his days wandering aimlessly. No one pays him enough attention to notice his aimless wanderings are concentrated in one direction.

Although he could tell from the map it was a big building, the space alone – a fat rectangle – was depicted. He had guessed a factory or perhaps a warehouse.

It is, in fact, a school.

For a split second terror ices over his gut, as if someone's poured liquid nitrogen straight down his throat. He's made a mistake – he's tracked the wrong phone – he's remembered incorrectly – and he's wasted 3 hours. But then his brains kick in, and the ice thaws into nothing as quickly as it came.

The school is clearly abandoned. The front entrance is blocked by locked gates, a fact which alone is inconceivable on a school day, but beyond it the front entrance is also dark and empty. He can see chains looped around the door handles. Weeds are growing in cracks in the concrete, vines creeping over muddy planters. And, above all, the place is dead silent, as no school ever is.

Instead of approaching the dirty stucco walls of the fence, he turns a corner and heads for the nearest apartment building. There's a locked door to prevent entry by non-tenants, but that's no problem. He's climbing rust-stained stairs in less than a minute.

The building's only eight storeys, nine including the roof, but it's enough. He slips out into the cloudy afternoon and stoops down low. Crawls to the flat edge and peers over, lying on his stomach and ignoring the uneven roof digging into his chest like dozens tiny claws. Even if the men holding the kids are grunts, they're grunts in what must be an incredible strict organization and that requires cautious handling. Wind slicking over his flat hair, he pulls his monocle from his pocket and dials up the magnification.

There's no sign of anyone in the building; no lights or movement. He focuses instead on looking for signs of entrance, checks the chain-locked doors. And finds nothing.

Mouth slowly drying – what if he _was _wrong, _did_ remember incorrectly? What if the signal or the map were incorrect? – he eases back from the edge and scrambles down the stairs and out into the street. Skirts the school once more, this time headed for the opposite side.

The new vantage point – the cracking roof of a slightly taller complex- shows the same scene: dark windows, tarnished glass. And, lying curled like a snake beside one of the students' entrances, a length of rusty chain.

Bingo.

Now all that's left is to round up Nakamori and the others. He hurries down to the street, backtracks to the last payphone he saw. Considers for a second, then, with bright eyes, picks up the phone.

TBC


	8. An Arrest

Nakamori's out of cigarettes. It's not an unsolvable problem; there's a machine round the corner which must by now have stored several tens of thousands of his yen in its belly, and a convenience store a block further. But somehow he doesn't feel like leaving the house, not even to stall the itch in his fingers. With nothing to do but wait and trust, he needs to do it here. Here, in his home, the closest thing he has left to an anchor. Here, in his home, where he never stayed 13 years ago during Kiyoko's illness, afraid to taint it with his pain and grief. Here, in his home, where he only has two cans of beer left. He knows he drinks too much when the opportunity presents itself, and that the only way to safeguard himself is to stave off the opportunity, even if that means a self-enforced house arrest.

The night before had been a bad night, Nakamori lying restless on his suddenly uncomfortable bed, staring at the wall separating his room from his daughter's. It was a relief to have Kid there, to know the thief was lying, sleeping, on her floor. It meant he could tear into himself for sheltering his quarry – dealing with the enemy, giving the one person Aoko comes close to hating permission to invade the sanctity of her room – rather than think about her. And he embraced that guilt, pulled the razor-sharp edges closer when he realised he was putting Kid above her yet again, rather than face the alternative. It was much less painful.

He fell into a fitful sleep eventually, drifted into shapeless dreams with the same dark atmosphere as his thoughts, a continuation rather than a change. When he woke, simply opening his eyes as though he'd only closed them for a second, he found morning light beating against the blinds and Aoko's room empty. It wasn't a surprise.

So here he sits in the front room. He's picked up the pieces, returned the whole knickknacks to their places and gathered the cracked, the broken, the shattered in a tough plastic bag; he's sure Aoko will want to go through them. He has a cup of lukewarm coffee in one hand, a pen in the other, and his notebook open on his knee. He's been occupying himself by writing increasingly insulting letters to Higashiyama, which he will never send. It's passing the time, but also raising his blood pressure.

The Inspector's on his fourth draft, which is satisfyingly without a smidgeon of politeness but hasn't quite captured the depth of his spitting rage. His fury burns all the brighter with the awareness that Higashiyama is technically in the right, no matter how inconsiderate his timing and unethical his methods. He's just considering a stronger adjective when the phone rings.

Nakamori starts, then curses as his notepad slithers off his knee to hit the ground with a quiet fluttering thump. He is nevertheless in the hall with the second ring, scooping up the phone with the third.

"Hello?" says the voice on the other end, uncertainty colouring the Kansai twang.

"Nakamori," says Nakamori, shuffling through his mental registry for Kansai boys he knows. It's a kid's voice, or nearly.

"Ah, Inspector," replies the voice, uncertainty replaced with confidence. A beat and then, secretively, "It's me."

_Who_ is the first reply that comes to his mind, but he knows who perfectly well, and to ask will only be to record the answer irrefutably on tape. His thoughts kick into furious overdrive while his hand clenches around the plastic of the phone. _Why the hell's he calling me_ flashes bright and hot through his mind, and then chasing fast on its heels _Oh gods, has something – ?_

"What is it?" he bites out all teeth and tongue, knowing he should be trying to cover himself, to invent a back-story, a reason. Knowing, and not giving a damn.

"I've got information for you," says Kid in his assumed voice, false accent. His tone isn't overly urgent, but it never is, and the fact that he's making this call openly must mean –

"Where?"

"On the roof of Mitsukoshi in Ginza. Forty-five minutes, bring the others." Mitsukoshi is one of the most popular department stores in Ginza, swimming with the human sea Kid is so fond of. Nakamori glances at his watch. 1pm. It'll be a stretch to make it there in time – he's never bothered with a car. But Oogawa has one…

"Right," he answers, already working out the logistics.

A click followed by the steady beep of disconnection is his only answer.

* * *

The Mitsukoshi building is a classic haunt of Kid's. Set right in the urban jungle of Ginza, it's surrounded by several taller buildings to provide escape by wire, and does its part to create the wind tunnels so common among skyscrapers, allowing for a quick get-away by glider.

Nakamori slams through the heavy roof-access fire door, badge still in hand from forcing entrance through the clerks down below, and skids to a stop, shocked twice-over.

Kid is standing near the edge of the roof with his back to the door, waiting. Nakamori has never in 20 years known him not to make a grand entrance – or, from a more practical perspective, to show up first and therefore miss the advantage of judging his opponent's setup from afar – although that gives it at least the value of rarity. But even more surprising, Kid is standing in front of him – in broad daylight – dressed in his white silk, complete with mantle and top hat.

Nakamori supposes there is no technical reason the thief couldn't wear his costume in the day; it's not as though he's ever been shy of attracting attention. But Kaitou Kid is firmly and inexorably imprinted in the Inspector's mind as a nocturnal phenomenon: like an owl or a leopard, he hunts only at night. It's the dark hours alone he occupies, sleeping in the day under an unnoticed face in the crowd. More than that, he only _exists_ when the stars are out, and seeing him in the day is as startling as seeing an owl swoop by at noon: unnatural, disturbing, _wrong_.

This is his first impression, a feeling rather than a thought, belonging to his gut, not his brain. His first thought is: _is he _trying _to get us fired_?

Nakamori crosses the roof in quick strides, heart racing for fear of what it is Kid wants to tell him, has brought him out here at extreme risk to both of them to pass on.

It's only later he realises it never once occurred to him Kid might be trying to have him removed.

The boy turns, presumably hearing the tap of his shoes on the concrete. It's a cloudy day, breezy without being stormy, and up here the wind is ruffling even Nakamori's short hair. It's blowing Kid's cape out steadily to his left, whipping it like a flag, and as the thief turns it tangles briefly about him before slipping away. Nakamori's gut twists again.

Kid's face is dark under the hat brim and monocle, probably with the same make-up as last night, although the lines of his face seem different. But it's always hard to tell with the monocle throwing off all symmetry. The thief's eyes flash over him, then sweep over the men behind him, crowded tense and silent. Kid's hands hang by his sides, his posture undecided.

"Good afternoon, Inspector," says the thief in the same voice as he used on the phone, thick with a Kansai accent. Nakamori's gut tightens further. Kid's never bothered with further disguises beneath his main one, not to this extent.

"What is it?" Nakamori spits back, hears his men draw up closer behind him. Kid pauses, and the Inspector sees the uncertainty flash across his face. Not the uncertainty of a hard decision, but of confusion. Taken with everything else, it's more than enough.

"You're not –" he begins, and gets no further.

There's no sound but the ripping of the wind in the kid's cape, and a low sound of surprise pulled from his throat. Without warning the boy stumbles backwards, a bright flash of red standing out against the white of his coat near his heart. His eyes widen in pain, then slide closed and he drops, his momentum carrying him backwards. Nakamori doesn't move fast enough, shock planting his feet to the ground; the boy lands flat on his back, his cape licking out like sea foam from under his still form. For an instant the Inspector's not sure he's not dreaming, not caught in a vivid memory. Almost expects to feel snow falling in his hair and hear the crowd murmuring at his back.

Then life catches up, and his mind notes the differences. There is no snow here, and there is no blood seeping over the narrow chest.

"Twice in two days," says a familiar voice from behind him. Nakamori turns, halfway to kneeling beside the unconscious boy, to see Higashiyama and a couple of uniforms slip out from behind the stairwell. The Superintendant looks indecently triumphant as he crosses the roof in quick, predatory strides. As if stepping up for a medal.

"Don't bother about arresting him, Inspector. I know you won't."

Nakamori kneels next to the boy, lying with a long red-tipped dart buried in his chest. Presses a couple of fingers against his warm throat and notes the strong, regular pulse there.

The top hat was knocked off in the fall, revealing dark hair pulled forwards into a high forelock and a sharp face.

"No, sir, I won't. Because that's not Kid."

"Is that really the best you can do?" Higashiyama's drops to his knees as well, pulls a pair of handcuffs from his belt. In quick, harsh movements he draws out the dart before Nakamori can stop him, the Inspector protesting with a gruff "Sir!" His superior ignores him, and goes on to strip away the white jacket and rip the blue silk sleeves off at the shoulders, tosses them to one of his men. He then shoves the boy over onto his chest, yanking dark arms roughly behind the narrow back, and cuffs them together as tight as the cuffs will allow.

"Sir, this is _not_ Kaitou Kid, you can't –"

Higashiyama pays him no attention. Flipping the boy over again he pulls out a knife – Nakamori starts – and with it cuts away the white pants from the knees. Strips off the dress shoes, leaving the boy in his socks. He produces a second pair of cuffs and locks them over the dark ankles.

"Sir!" growls Nakamori, reaching for the boy's shoulders. There's a small stain of blood standing out like a dark stone against the river-blue of the shirt, a product of the dart's careless removal. The Inspector knows a fair bruise will already be forming under the silk.

"You were recorded making an illegal assignation with Kaitou Kid, and you – all of you – have been caught carrying it out. You will be arrested and taken to headquarters where, if I have anything to say about it –"

"Sir," snarls Nakamori, finally succeeding in breaking in. "This is not Kaitou Kid, and it wasn't him on the phone either." Forced now to come up with an excuse, Nakamori cudgels his brains. But they haven't let him down yet. "We suspected we were being spied on," he nods at his men, "and thought maybe further attacks were being planned, so we set this up to smoke out whoever was listening. We didn't think it would be you," he almost spits the words, and it takes absolutely no effort to channel the anger he poured out earlier today on paper. "Sir," he adds, belatedly. And then, eyes flashing, "Do you have court permission to be tapping my phone?"

Higashiyama, growing steadily redder through his Inspector's speech, refutes him by striking at the beginning of his argument. "This," he says, fisting a hand in blue silk and shaking the unresisting body like a terrier with a broken-backed rat, "is Kaitou Kid, and all of you will be going away for conspiracy and misconduct." He plucks off Kid's monocle, revealing a familiar face. And just like that, Nakamori knows he's won, has to bite down the smile to keep it from showing. Wonders what gods were looking out for him.

But of course there weren't any. Just a thief, who also on occasion happens to be a magician.

"That's Hattori Heizou's son," says Oogawa from behind him.

"No, it's his face," replies Higashiyama irritably, and drags rough fingers along the boy's hairline, digging short nails into the dark skin, searching for the edge of a mask. Finding nothing he rummages through his pockets and draws out a handkerchief in a stiff movement. Spits on it and pulls it over the teenager's face, stretching the skin and leaving it slightly flushed with the pressure. It leaves no pale streaks in its wake, comes away as clean as before.

"This is impossible," spits Higashiyama, but he's paling. "There is no way," he continues, staring at the unconscious body of the son of Osaka's Chief of Police. The son of one of the most important men in the Force, with a rapidly spreading name of his own. The son of a man with a fiery reputation, who the Superintendant's just ordered taken down with a definitely non-regulation weapon in what constitutes assault. If he had managed to capture Kid, the methods _might_ have been overlooked, but now…

Nakamori glances over his shoulder. "Oogawa," he says quietly, under Higashiyama's protestations, "call the medics." Hears the man dialling.

"Well, there's no reason the boy can't be Kid," says the Superintendant, grasping at straws.

"Ignoring the fact that Kaitou Kid must be nearing, if not in, his forties, I know for a fact that Chief Hattori's son has an alibi for at least one of Kid's heists – he was almost hit by a car on his bike while chasing Kid." Nakamori sent some fruit, prompted both by courtesy and the fact that the kid had been hurt doing his job – possibly better than him, at that moment.

"And I'm sure," he continues, in case Higashiyama's inclined to argue, "that living in Osaka he'll have plenty of others."

It's an unnecessary precaution. He may be a man with an axe to grind with Nakamori, but Higashiyama's no fool. And he knows when he's crossed the line. Nakamori stands, leaving his superior to wrestle with losing face by releasing the boy now or risk even further fury from the famous Hattori Heizou – whose temper is also well known throughout the Force – by holding out.

Either way, it's no longer Nakamori's problem. In fact, his path has just been swept clear of obstacles, like an arm pulled across a chessboard, leaving only the two kings standing. Himself, and his objective.

"I'll be going now, sir," he says. Higashiyama doesn't bother to answer, kneeling stonily by the boy he's been tricked into assaulting.

Tricked by whom?

As if he even needs to ask.

* * *

Nakamori walks out the front doors of Mitsukoshi, looking for a sign. He's not disappointed. Across the street, leaning nonchalantly against a vending machine and reading a newspaper is a youngish man in jeans, a loose shirt and a baseball cap. As he glances up with Nakamori's exit, the Inspector catches the glint of light off a monocle, and freezes. The man gives a tiny inclination of his head, folds his paper and begins walking down the street.

_Follow me_. Nakamori does, collecting his men behind him with a glance.

The man turns at the first corner, loitering by a shop front waiting for the traffic light to change in Nakamori's favour. He's off as soon as it does, just one narrow back in a crowd. He makes a further few turns, leading the troop through the crowded streets apparently at random. He ends up leaning against a dingy wall in a quiet alley. The monocle has long since vanished, the face under the cap plain and just slightly too thin.

"I take it the diversion was a success? Your tails left you at Mitsukoshi."

Nakamori hadn't noticed, but it's doubtless true. The men assigned to him, and possibly the others, would have assumed Higashiyama was finished with them when they left unhindered and no further orders were issued.

"You threw Hattori to them just to pull our watchers off?"

"I could hardly have met you otherwise, and efficient as I am I wouldn't care to undertake to rescue 6 people from possibly at least twice that number without _some_ backup. Besides, as a fellow officer's son, I'm sure he'll receive good treatment."

All distaste with Kid's mercenary actions disappeared halfway through his speech, without Nakamori's even noticing it. But despite that, Sawara speaks up first.

"Rescue – you know where they are?"

"Almost certainly."

"Then what the hell're we waiting for?" Washio, low and rough.

Kid gives him a flat look, and there's a worldliness there that surprises Nakamori. A sharpness that says the boy knows exactly what's at stake. Because he's lost it before. It freezes the fire in Nakamori's veins cold, and from the silence of his men it's clear he's not the only one to recognize it.

"We can't discuss this here," says Nakamori after a pause. They need somewhere enclosed, somewhere they can concentrate and plan. The office would of course have been easiest, but with the Higashiyama situation unresolved that's an impossibility. His own house is likewise not a good choice, just in case the Superintendant tries to fire off one last round by setting watchers on him again. They need somewhere not associated with the Squad, but that's hard to think of.

"I know somewhere," says Kid, less eagerly than he might have, but not reluctantly either. "How many cars do you have?"

Nakamori glances at Washio, Sawara and Takarai, who came together. "I drove," says Sawara quietly.

"Two," answers the Inspector, turning back to the thief.

"Fine." He pulls out a notebook and a pen, scribbles a few lines on a page and tears it out, hands it to Sawara. "Follow us, but if you lose us, here's the address and a couple directions." Halfway to handing it over, he pauses, tilts to glance at Nakamori. "If that's alright with the Inspector," he adds.

Unsure whether he's asking permission to give orders, or to catch a ride in the second car, Nakamori shrugs to hide his confusion and indicates Oogawa. "It's Oogawa's car."

Kid's eyes flash to him, bright and considerate.

"S-sure," replies the lieutenant, sounding slightly shell-shocked at being asked for permission to chauffeur Kaitou Kid.

"Good. Let's go."

* * *

Oogawa parked in the underground Mitsukoshi parking lot, and leads the way down the stairs into the dark, echoing space. It's surreal, going to pick up a car from the parking lot with Kid. But that's nothing compared to being_ in the car_ with the thief.

There's an awkward pause when they reach it, the three cops unsure of their own emotions, unsure of how wary Kid is, unsure in general. It's Kid who saves the situation, motioning towards the passenger side. "If I'm going to be directing, it might be better for me to sit in the front," he suggests, dividing his glance between Oogawa and Nakamori.

Nakamori, technically in charge and also the other candidate for the seat, nods. Situation somewhat resolved, Oogawa unlocks the doors and they pile in, Nakamori behind Oogawa, Yamamoto behind Kid. Kid, sliding into the passenger seat as if he'd been there dozens of times, as if it were his own car rather than a policeman's. He even pulls on the seatbelt, further trapping himself, without any apparent concern. Nakamori wishes he could see his face in the rear-view mirror.

Kid directs them out into the bumper-to-bumper traffic of Ginza at the tail-end of lunch-hour and then south and east through Shimbashi. Mostly he leaves Oogawa to drive as he likes as long as the officer heads in the right direction, says nothing when the man takes a few shortcuts around traffic jams and Sunday drivers. Nakamori sits cramped in the back seat, the first time he's not been up front in years, and tries to relax. Tries not to add to the undercurrent of thick tension in the car which all of them can feel, Oogawa and Yamamoto sitting almost ramrod-straight, the former with his hands tight on the wheel at ten and two and driving with nearly mechanical precision. Kid alone seems unaffected, or more likely is just better at feigning it, lounging in his seat with his cap tipped up high, a canvas messenger bag at his feet. Every now and then he makes a gesture with a lazy hand, indicating right or left in a colourless drawl.

Nakamori is starting to realise that when this is all over, they're going to need to operate on a whole new level of resourcefulness and intelligence to even have a chance of catching the thief. That they'll have to rework the Squad from the ground up. But right now, that's a thought that seems years away from any practical implementation.

Kid directs them – with Sawara's tiny Nissan March following behind – out of the crowds of Shimbashi and into the quieter streets of Tsukishima. The roads narrow from four and six lane boulevards to two lane avenues, some allowing parking on the sides. It's in front of a toy shop, already decked out for Kodomo no Hi with elaborate multicoloured koi flags hanging in the windows, that Kid directs Oogawa to start looking for a parking space. They eventually come up on a small parking lot with exorbitant fees, and pull in. Sawara follows them, parking in the adjacent space. Tickets are issued and collected, and then they stand around like cadets at a seminar, waiting to be given directions. Kid, watching them with a straight face and laughing eyes, takes the lead.

Off-duty as they are, they're all dressed casually in jeans and slacks and loose shirts. Nakamori can only imagine how they must look, a pack of men in their thirties and forties marching with grim resolution after a young man through the slightly less reputable streets of Tsukishima's east quarter.

Kid leads them away from the main street into a smaller back-road squeezed in between two brick buildings, barely wide enough for one car to drive along without scraping off its mirrors. There are several doors on either side, some shop entrances, others private. Kid stops at an unmarked one framed on either side by seeping stains on the brickwork and pulls a key from his pocket, turns it in the lock and steps into the dark space beyond.

A fluorescent light flickers slowly to light above them, humming low and thick in what turns out to be a mostly-empty room with a naked concrete floor and cracked white-washed walls. In a corner a couple of cardboard boxes are all that prevent the label "empty". There's a crooked wooden door at the back of the room, the only other feature.

"I'm afraid it's not very comfortable," says the thief, walking over to the boxes and glancing into them. He pulls a legal-sized pad of paper from one, along with a clipboard. From his messenger bag, now slung carelessly over one shoulder, he pulls out a map.

The other men have fanned out in a half circle on either side of Nakamori, watching Kid with expressions of uncertainty and anxiousness of varying strength with Takarai on one end and Washio on the other, Oogawa in the middle with something approaching blank watchfulness.

Kid returns, glancing over them once with something that feels like assessment, and then sits down quite deliberately in front of them, crossing his legs. There's a pause and then they follow suit, the younger Takarai and Yamamoto merely squatting while Nakamori, Sawara, Washio and Oogawa sit on the cold floor. Kid unfolds the map, which turns out to be of Outa-ku, and turns it so that it's the proper way up for them. Producing a pen apparently out of thin air, he taps a rectangular building in the lower left-hand corner which is already marked with a star.

"Here," he says. Only one word, but they all know immediately what he means, each man leaning in closer to get a better look. "It's an abandoned middle school," he adds, "Maihara."

"How do you know they're there?" barks Washio, without looking up.

"I tracked Nozomi-kun's cell phone through the service provider," says Kid, surprisingly straightforward. Yamamoto stiffens, looking up at his son's name. "He's still got it – or more likely one of them has – in case they need to call in again."

"What if it was just ditched there to mislead?" Sawara, quiet and still.

"That's a possibility," concedes the thief. "I checked the building from the outside, and it's certain that someone has been inside. I didn't get any closer – couldn't risk blowing anything. But if they were going to dump the phone, I doubt they'd take the trouble of breaking into a condemned school to do it."

Logical. Nakamori meets his eyes. "You didn't see anything while you were there?"

"Nothing. But like I said, I kept my distance."

"No vehicles?"

"Not on the premises."

"Then they have no immediate get-away." If they make a quick strike, they can prevent escape.

"Not within the school grounds, no. They could have parked nearby; there are plenty of parking lots, and kerb parking."

Nakamori nods, more out of habit than agreement. "Then we have no way of knowing how many men we're dealing with." He glances at the men, flipping through his mental records. Sawara and Oogawa cut their teeth in Section Two, neither of them has much experience in the other areas. Takarai's too young to have spent much time anywhere else. But Yamamoto spent three years in Section One before shifting positions, Washio two. He singles them out with his eyes.

"How many would you expect? To keep track of 6 kids and a woman?"

Yamamoto glances at Washio, the latter looks straight ahead, calculating. "Cutting it close, I'd say you could do it with three," Washio answers. "But five would be standard, two watching the hostages, two on the exits, one running roaming patrols."

"We know they must have had at least two teams of two or three, possibly five individual teams. They have the men to spare; there could be as many as fifteen," adds Yamamoto.

"Five we could handle. Fifteen is too many." Not to mention that they're not trained in this, nothing beyond basic and for at least three of them basic was almost twenty years ago. This, Nakamori knows, is the point where they should bring in Section One, bring in the SWAT team, the men trained in hostage situations.

He looks at his watch to prolong the decision. 2:30.

Regardless of who it is that moves in, he knows they'll wait until after dark to take advantage of the edge that will give a surprise raid. It won't be dark for another four and a half hours. He looks to Kid. "You said you tracked them with Yamamoto-kun's cell phone."

If Kid's surprised at the change of topic, he doesn't show it. Nakamori expected no different. "Yeah."

"How? On the computer?"

"Yes."

"Could you do it from any computer. Or – could anyone do it from any computer?"

"With the account information, yes."

Nakamori nods. "Then we should get someone watching it. And a couple of men on the building as well." This is still only prolonging the inevitable, and his tone is indecisive as a consequence. No one moves. He sighs, lowers tense shoulders and looks around. Takarai is still staring at the map, only his eyes moving as he traces roads and highways. Washio is glaring, but from his angle Nakamori can't be sure if he's looking at the wall or just dissatisfied with things in general. Yamamoto is kneeling now, and he meets Nakamori's eyes with keen openness. On his other side the old guard is sitting still. Oogawa looks up with understanding, and an uncertainty that says he doesn't know what the right decision is either – or rather that he does, and still can't reconcile himself to it. Sawara is staring straight and unblinkingly at Kid.

"This," says Nakamori finally, with a taste like ashes in his mouth, "is the point when we call in the professionals."

There is no witty protestation, no _we _are _the professionals_. They all know where procedure lies and, beyond it, where the correct decision lies. And they all, equally, know where their hearts lie. In direct conflict with their duties.

The fact that he didn't see this coming, that he had expected plain sailings after the original decision to go against procedure, makes the blow all the more painful.

Nakamori turns to Kid, back hunched, eyes dark. In the bright light beating down solely from the fluorescent bulbs overhead, the thief's own eyes are shadowed almost completely by his cap. The Inspector can't tell where he's looking, although he's facing the map, the Squad. "Will you cooperate with a Section One operation?" he asks, voice harder than he intends it to be.

"If you're asking if I will put myself at their disposal, the answer can only be no. They wouldn't have me in any case, you know that." Kid skirts the question, taking refuge in technicalities.

"You could take part in the operation as one of them; we all know impersonating an officer is no trouble for you."

"Are you asking me to infiltrate a police operation?" Kid still doesn't look up, but his voice is colder than usual. It gives no hints as to his feelings in the matter.

"You could be a valuable asset," says Nakamori, steering clear of the dangerous question.

"Since you won't be involved, there's no reason for me to tell you my decision."

He has nothing but Kid's tone and posture to go on, and neither say much, but he has the impression the thief is disappointed in him. Disappointed, or disapproving.

"And if we ran the operation?" asks Sawara. Nakamori turns quick as a striking snake, but sees only blankness in his subordinate's face. A question prompted by, as far as his expression gives away, neither curiosity nor intent.

"Although it goes against procedure, and would not usually be the best option," says Kid slowly, "I have reason to believe that the fewer people brought into this case, the better. Don't ask me why – I can't tell you. That is just my advice. Do as you think best, of course."

There's a pause, a thick quiet separated from silence only by the buzz of the lights. Kid looks up, eyes fiercely intense after the shadowed interval. "I certainly will."

That's as good as a promise, and there are very few activities Nakamori can think of where the help of Kaitou Kid would not be a significant asset. He can also think of very few situations where taking the thief's advice would not be the best course.

"Alright," he says, and just like that the atmosphere changes from uncertainty to a kind of electrified readiness. "Washio and Yamamoto. Go and keep an eye on the building – don't get too close. Stick to one of the nearby buildings. Take Sawara's car," he glances to the man, who digs out his keys and tosses them over, "it's inconspicuous. If they look like leaving, you'll have to make the choice as to whether to follow them or not, but don't do anything radical; we can always pick them up again with the phone."

"Yes, sir," says Yamamoto, Washio standing already. He would have preferred to send Oogawa in place of Washio but he needs his lieutenant to coordinate, and possibly pull threads, and he's not sure of either Takarai or Sawara's frames of mind right now.

"Sawara, Takarai, call the squad. Tell them to meet with their equipment but in civilian clothes at Hawaiian Blue at 3:30, and keep their mouths shut." Hawaiian Blue is one of the Squad's favourite bars, close enough to the station to be convenient while far enough away that debauchery won't come to the attention of any inconveniently wandering superiors. "Round them up and bring them here; get anyone with cars to drive them." Kid's storage room – or whatever it is – is not well-equipped for this kind of thing, but it's the best they have and it's not too inconvenient in terms of transportation.

"Oogawa, we'll need maps, paper, pens, you know the drill. A table, if you can get one. Take the car."

"Yes, sir."

Washio and Yamamoto are already gone, Oogawa standing to leave. Sawara and Takarai are moving over to a corner to split up the numbers between them. Leaving him with Kid.

"Got a job for me, Inspector?" asks the thief, grinning sharply.

"I figured you'd probably have something of your own to do." He didn't, but he can't quite bring himself to give orders to the thief.

"As a matter of fact, I do. Besides, I'd feel a bit out of place hanging out here with you and your crew. Group briefings aren't really my style."

"Then you're leaving?"

"I'll be around, Inspector, don't worry. Just in case you think up a job for me, I'll drop in to see you before you saddle up."

"We'll probably leave around seven," says Nakamori, again struck by the oddness of planning _with _the thief.

"Somehow, I figured that," replies Kid, still smirking. "Later." He tugs at the brim of his cap and, apparently unable to resist, disappears in a sudden burst of smoke that leaves Nakamori coughing.

"I hate it when he does that," growls the Inspector. Then turns back to the map. There's a lot to do.


	9. Interlude II: Hattori Heiji's Trying Day

Notes: Bad news, sports fans. I'm going on holiday. Which is, you know, good for me, but not so good for updates. Since this is a short fake-chapter, I'll have another one for you on Friday before I leave. After that I'm afraid the next update won't be until at least the second week in April after I get back and get it fixed up.

* * *

_Interlude II, April 24__th__: Hattori Heiji's Trying Day_

Heiji knows it's going to be a bad day from the moment he's woken at 5 in the morning by an ambulance parking in the alley beside his window and leaving its sirens on. It keeps him awake for almost half an hour, and when it finally leaves he falls immediately into a deep sleep and doesn't hear his alarm clock, buried under a shirt he threw off hastily the night before after a late kendo practice followed by a new book on forensics.

The realisation comes back to him as a feeling rather than a thought when his mother wakes him at 7:05, giving him five minutes to get out of the house if he's going to be on time for school. He stubs his toe hurrying to gather his homework, and slams his ankle against the doorframe struggling to pull on his pants. By this time it's 7:09 and he's running down the stairs with no time for breakfast. He only just remembers his lunch, sitting waiting for him on the breakfast table along with his now cold rice and soup. His mother, inclined to be absent-minded at the best of times, is probably already off doing some chore or the other. He hares out the door, hoping she remembered his chopsticks today, and very nearly runs smack into a passing kindergartener.

His bus is late, but miraculously makes up time on the trip, leading him to believe he may have escaped his string of bad luck. Kazuha meets him at the school gates, sharp eyes running over him in critical appraisal.

"You've buttoned your jacket crookedly," she points out, waving a finger at the buttons. He glances down, hair falling in his face. "And you didn't brush your hair," she adds, digging through her bag while he sorts out his jacket. She's handing him a comb by the time he's finished, and he pulls it through his hair a couple of times, aware that protesting will only make things worse. A gaggle of girls passes them, giggling. "Did you oversleep, idiot?"

"Of course not. My alarm didn't go off." It's almost true. In a way. For a given value of true.

Behind them, the chimes start ringing and Heiji curses, Kazuha pushing him around the gate in her own haste to get to the school. "Hey, stop pushing!"

"Start walking faster!"

In retrospect, it's amazing to him that he didn't trip over the steps and plough straight into the doors.

* * *

Homeroom is unexciting as always, the teacher announcing a last-minute substitution of lessons in third period due to the chemistry teacher's unexpected absence. He takes the time to sort out his homework, all crammed together in a frantic mess. His pen, cracked without his noticing it, seizes this opportunity to snap altogether and spill ink all over his math answer book. Cursing again he pulls his handkerchief out of his pocket only to be stopped by Kazuha's smacking him over the head with a workbook.

"You can't mop that up with a handkerchief, the stain'll never come out. Here." She hands him some paper tissues, which he uses promptly. The ink seeps through onto his fingers, giving them a disgusting look of mortification – he's reminded of the book he was reading last night.

He's just finished cleaning up, balling the tissues into a small black lump to toss into the garbage – when the teacher returns and singles him out with a glance.

"Hattori-kun, could you come here?"

Surprised, he does so, throwing away the tissues as he passes the garbage can.

"Your father just called the school, apparently there's been a minor incident. You're to go home, and turn on your phone so you can be contacted."

Heiji's heart constricts immediately, painfully, in his chest, each beat aching. All at once his thoughts are sucked away as if by a vortex, leaving only one burning bright in the darkness: _Something's happened to Mom_ – _car accident, fall, heart attack_. His next thought, edging its way in, is: _There's a case_, but while his father might covertly encourage his detective leanings he would never call him out of school to support them, and everything rips back to his mother, to accident, to _emergency_. He turns and stumbles to his desk, grabbing up his satchel from the hook on the side. Kazuha is watching him with wide eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know. Dad's called me home. I'll see you later." He barely has the presence of mind to keep calm, to try to reassure her, and consequently it's not much of a reassurance. "Take notes for me," he manages to hiss, before rounding again and hurrying out of the classroom, the teacher holding the door open for him.

* * *

He's halfway to the bus stop before he remembers the injunction to turn on his phone, slips it out of his bag and thumbs over the power button. It takes an age to turn on, each ad stretching over a ridiculous length as he watches it, urging it to hurry. He almost walks into a bicycle barrier.

Heiji's forced to look up to cross the road, which is the only reason the incoming call gets through before he can phone out to his dad.

"Hello?" he picks it up halfway across the road, answering without looking, quick and desperate. The voice on the other end is a child's, albeit a deep one.

"It's Kudou."

Heiji doesn't wonder why the boy's not in school, why he's phoning him at this very instant, why he sounds pressed, because he's thinking with his heart not his head. "Kudou, now's not–"

" Listen," cuts in the boy. "I made the call to the staff room."

Heiji stops a step from the kerb as the words slice clean through the fear. It still takes him a couple of replays to make sense of them.

"What?" he growls, stepping onto the sidewalk and then hurrying away from the distracting hum of traffic.

"Well, actually, it wasn't me. It was Kid." He sounds perfectly blasé, which is just icing on the goddamn cake.

"_What?_" repeats Heiji, snarling this time as fear makes a seamless transition into anger. He's unable to simply back away from the emotional storm the original phone call created, not when it's still running high.

"He's here. With me, in my house," adds Kudou, apparently thinking this will somehow make things better. Bring some sense into the equation. The logic is questionable enough that it distracts Heiji from his anger, allowing it to fade unnoticed while he brings thought back into the stream of the moment.

"Did he grab you? Is he holding you –?" Heiji's perfectly well aware that Kudou manages amazingly well for himself, can look out for himself almost all the time. But he's still a seven year-old, and when taken unawares that's an incredible disadvantage.

"No, of course he's not holding me hostage," says the boy, as if it were a stupid question. Heiji bristles, but calms immediately at the tone Kudou continues in. "But… Listen, Hattori, I need a favour." It's not a simple request. Not an easy one, either. And, judging by the lengths he's gone to to get Heiji out to hear it, it's damn important.

"There's been some kidnappings. Police officers' children. And the ransom is Kid."

Well. Fuck. Just… Fuck.

In the immediate shock of the statement there is no answer to that, and he makes none. Leans back against a wall slightly back from the street and turns his back to further muffle the sound of traffic.

"We might be able to track the kids through their phones – the kidnappers made the ransom call on one of their victims' phones, so there might be others. We have two victims old enough to have phones, but we need to know whether they do for sure, and what company they're with."

That, at least, there is an answer to. It's clear what the boy needs. "You want me to get the information." There's no point in making it a question.

"That's right. Got a pencil? I'll give you their names."

Heiji pulls a pen out of his bag, then the first book that comes to his hand, his English workbook. Flips to the last page and juggles the cell into the crook of his shoulder. "Okay, go ahead."

"Sawara Reina – she's officer Sawara's wife, 34 – that's Sawara like the fish. Reina – Kiritsu, rei's rei, Nara's na. Address is 5-2-8 Nomori, Setagawa-ku, Tokyo. Next is Yamamoto Nozomi – officer Yamamoto's son, 12 – Yamamoto as you'd expect, Nozomi in Hiragana. Address is 9-1-4 Fukaba, Kita-ku, Tokyo."

Heiji jots the information down, handwriting all over the page.

"There's another complication," Kudou adds as Heiji finishes up.

"It could get worse?" says Heiji with dripping sarcasm, closing the book and fumbling with the pen.

"If at all possible, this needs to be done without the Tokyo police finding out about it. There's an investigation in Section Two for misconduct. We don't want anyone to know they went outside for help."

Well, that's understandable. In a horrible way. Kudou's got himself in some damn deep trouble. And that's saying a lot for a seven year-old who dabbles in murder mysteries as a hobby.

"Okay," he says, unsure how exactly he's supposed to manage that. And then, "Do you need help? I can catch a train over as soon as I get the information – or even now, have someone call it in to me." He's already planning times, contacts.

"No," says Kudou, forcefully, breaking Heiji's train of thought. "No, I've got everything covered. Besides, you wouldn't get here long enough before the deadline to be any help. I've got it handled. But I need that information – as soon as possible."

There's unmistakable need there, and Heiji agrees immediately. "You got it." If there's not enough time for him to get there, Kudou must be running on a schedule tight enough to strangle. Heiji hangs up before he hears the answer; Kudou's got his number if he needs it.

He hurries down the road and steps in to the first park he comes across, crossing to gain himself some amount of quiet. Flips through his contact list, and thinks.

* * *

It isn't, after all, as much trouble as it could have been to get the Eastern Detective the information he needs. Ootaki-han is able to suggest a contact – after first quizzing him on his school situation – and the information is duly dug up and sent along. Leaving him to wonder whether he shouldn't go and check on Kudou anyway. Kidnapping isn't by any shot his specialty, but… leaving Kudou alone in a situation so desperate he agreed to the help of an international thief who he'd love to see behind bars rankles. Rankles badly. And it's not as if he has anything else to do, now that he's out of school.

And, he just happens to be in front of Shin-Osaka station.

* * *

Heiji arrives at Tokyo station with his homework for the next couple of days completed, and his satchel well rearranged. Is just considering calling Kudou to arrange to meet him, unsure whether the case is based in Tokyo or Beika, when his phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Hattori? It's Kudou."

"I was just going to call you. I'm at Tokyo station."

A pause, and then, slightly wearily. "I thought you might be. You didn't have to come, you know."

"Hey, you're not the only detective in this country." Interest in the case seems the best way to play it, best way to keep from upsetting Kudou further.

"Yeah, yeah. Since you're already here, there _is_ something you could do."

"Yeah? What?"

"I need someone to pass something to Inspector Nakamori – you remember him, the guy in charge of chasing Kid down."

"Sure." He has a vague memory of a moustache and a temper and a lot of misdirected energy.

"The thing is, Nakamori's expecting the information to come from Kid."

"_What_?"

"It'll be easy. You're about the same size. He left a spare costume, you can just put it on and hand over the information. Simple."

"Why can't he just go?"

"Who knows. He said he's busy. I'd rather not know more about what he's up to than I have to."

That, at least, makes sense. No point pressing complicity.

"So you want me to dress up like Kaitou Kid and give something to the guy who's job it is to arrest him?" clarifies Heiji.

"Don't worry. They've got a temporary truce – hence the reason they're under investigation by Section Two and all the hush-hush with the phone data. No one's going to arrest you. It might even be fun."

"You're just saying that because you know you're safe."

"Heh. So will you do it?"

Heiji sighs. It is true that there's no way Kudou could do it, and now that he's here he just can't let him down like that. "Alright. Where's the costume?"

"I'll read you the address. Oh, and one other thing. You'll have to call Nakamori to set up the meeting. Don't worry, I've got a place in mind."

"Oh, great," says Heiji, tone dripping in sarcasm. Kudou ignores it, the bastard.

* * *

And so he ends up standing on the roof of Mitsukoshi department store in Ginza, dressed in a white monkey-suit in the middle of the afternoon, pretending to be an _internationally wanted thief_ to meet a police Inspector. He's pretty sure by this point that there's no way his day could get worse.

It's only later he looks back on that thought and rolls his eyes at his own naivety.

The Inspector's brought along a handful of men, presumably the officers with kidnapped children, and Heiji can't help but feel for them. They're watching him with naked fear in their eyes, and he's suddenly horribly aware that he's pulled the same trick on him that Kudou – Kid, whichever – pulled on him this morning. Inspector Nakamori comes over to meet him, looking strained and haggard. So different from the blustering, confident man he remembers from the Memory Egg fiasco. And, although Kudou said nothing about it, he knows immediately that the man's one of the victims. Christ, they kidnapped an Inspector's kid? Who the hell has the balls to do that? And then to force a trade for the man he's supposed to be catching…

He hadn't realised until that very minute just how very bad this is. Just how much of a mess Kudou's landed himself in. He's suddenly very glad he came.

"What is it?" growls Nakamori, after the initial greetings, and Heiji recognizes his own tone of that morning, the latent fear there. Is unsure of how to deal with that, doesn't know what's on the disc he found with the costume addressed to the Inspector. Whether it's good news, or gods forbid, bad. He hesitates, and Nakamori's face hardens.

"You're not," begins the man, and that doesn't sound promising but an instant later he's forgotten. Pain rips through his chest as something hits him hard, as though a ball was kicked into him by Kudou's special shoes, and he falls backwards with the force of it. There's a split-second of panic, of pain and utter confusion, and then nothing.


	10. A Visit

Notes: As mentioned last time, the next update won't be until the second week of April, at least.

* * *

If there's one thing Kid's picked up from this whole horror show, it's that Nakamori has depths with which he never credited the man. The thief first caught an inkling of it in his call to Toshibu, in the immediate willingness of the man to risk his career for the Inspector. That was the nudge that started the ball rolling, but it's picked up speed quickly. Considering the incident at Tokyo General more thoughtfully gave it a damn good kick.

At the time he'd been so grateful to get away with his secret intact, so worried about Aoko connecting the dots, not to mention still wounded, that it never occurred to him to give more than a passing thought to how the Inspector got off the hook. How he'd gotten away with having the Kid escape after he cleared the room. Kid had chalked it up to luck or slackness, but really that was just slackness on his own part.

Nakamori somewhere, somehow, had some big guns to pull in on his behalf. And with the Inspector busy organising the squad, Kid's the only one available to see they take up his cause and strike while the iron's hot. No one can ever say he doesn't pay his dues, although admittedly it's not a question which comes up often.

It would have been easier to do, of course, if all the pertinent files hadn't been pulled by Higashiyama's investigation. But Kid has nothing if not a memory for facts, and it's no trouble to reel Toshibu's number up out of his mind. Arrange for copies of the files to be handed over at the front desk to a young man in a white shirt and slacks asking for Toshibu's files. So easy it's laughable, really.

He reads the pages crammed in the corner of a tiny café, air thick with the smells of coffee and baking. Toshibu, who's pretty clever for an old acquaintance of Nakamori, has pulled him not only Nakamori's reports – which are pretty thin on the ground – but the replies, and even a couple of circulars not strictly for the attention of the Squad but relating to the incident all the same. Nice.

The reports read like a map of a barely camouflaged battle. Mark the theatres of war between Section Two Superintendent Higashiyama and Tokyo's Superintendant General Arakawa. The protagonist, wandering through the pages seen through the eyes of others rather than reporting himself, is Nakamori. It seems an entire intricate campaign took place around about the Inspector without his notice – or at least acknowledgement. Some reports in particular catch his eye, as he reads over the running commentary on his time in hospital with voyeuristic interest. Interest which churns into a kind of appalled frustration as he reads further.

_XXXX/11/11_

_To: Tokyo Superintendent General Arakawa Hideki _

_CC: __Tokyo Police Division One Superintendant __Tsutomi__Kiyosuke_

_Kaitou 1412 was wounded last night in an attempted heist and is currently being held at Tokyo General Hospital in a private room on the 4__th__ floor. His condition is reported as serious but not life-threatening. Round-the-clock guard duty is being filled by the Kaitou Kid Task Force, with an additional Press barrier at the main entrances supplemented by Section Two officers. _

… _Inspector Nakamori has relayed to me that Kaitou Kid is not currently in custody, a questionable decision. It is my intention to see that Kaitou Kid is read his rights and arrested at the earliest possible opportunity…_

_Higashiyama Yuki_

_XXXX/11/13_

_To: Tokyo Superintendent General Arakawa Hideki_

_The Police barrier has been reduced and is now drawing solely on the members of the Kaitou Kid Task Force. While Kaitou Kid remains under guard, his condition is still reported as unconscious and likely to remain so for a further few days. He is also currently not under arrest, and I await Inspector Nakamori's report with interest…_

_Higashiyama Yuki_

_XXXX/11/14_

_To: Tokyo Superintendant General Arakawa Hidek__i_

_CC: Tokyo Police Division One Superintendant Tsutomi Kiyosuke, Police Division Two Superintendant Higashiyama Yuki_

…

_As for kaitou 1412, designated Kaitou Kid, he is currently in a solitary room in the intensive care ward of the Tokyo General Hospital. Long-term prognosis is uncertain. Owing to the legal and physical difficulties of taking such a patient into custody, he is currently being guarded by four police officers at all times, but is not under arrest. Arrest will be carried out when feasible_…

_Nakamori Ginzo_

_XXXX/11/14_

_To: Tokyo Police Division Two Superintendant Higashiyama Yuki_

_As Inspector Nakamori has substantial experience in this case, I advise careful consideration of his suggestions. We certainly don't want Kid hospital-bound for any longer than absolutely necessary, which the stress of arrest might cause…_

_Arakawa Hideki_

_XXXX/11/15_

_To: Tokyo Police __Superintendant General Arakawa Hidek__i_

_CC: __Tokyo Police Division One Superintendant Tsutomi Kiyosuke_

_I have removed Inspector Nakamori from his position as head of the Kaitou Kid Task Force. He has repeatedly stalled rather than carry out my orders – effectively refusing to place Kaitou Kid under arrest. He has failed to report in on a regular and mandatory basis, and has purposely put himself out of contact. _

_Nakamori has turned in his weapon and badge and has been stood down until further notice. As the Kaitou Kid Task Force will be disbanded as soon as the thief is handed over to police custody, he will remain in effective quarantine until that point. I can tell you frankly, sir, that unless directly ordered there will be no place for him in Section Two…_

_Higashiyama Yuki_

_XXXX/11/16_

_To: Tokyo Police Division Two Superintendant Higashiyama Yuki_

_CC: Tokyo Police __Superintendant General Arakawa Hidek__i_

_If you're unwise enough to throw out Nakamori, I will find a place for him in Section One._

_Tsutomi Kiyosuke_

_XXXX/11/18_

_To: Tokyo Police __Superintendant General Arakawa Hidek__i_

_CC: __Tokyo Police Division One Superintendant Tsutomi Kiyosuke_

_Please find attached the preliminary plan for Kaitou Kid's transfer from Tokyo General Hospital to the medical ward in the Chiba Maximum Security Prison. Transfer will take place the day after tomorrow, November 20__th__. The Kaitou Kid Task Force will be disbanded at midnight of the 19__th__, the transfer being effected primarily by Section Two officers with their chief removed the reliability of the Task Force is questionable… _

_Higashiyama Yuki._

_XXXX/11/19_

_To: Tokyo Police Division Two Superintendant Higashiyama Yuki_

_CC: __Tokyo Police Division One Superintendant Tsutomi Kiyosuke_

_I strongly advise you to reconsider removing Inspector Nakamori, now that Kid is once again on the loose. I might point out that it was only after his departure that Kid was able to escape. Whatever the reason behind his escape, better judgement may have been called for in the handling of this incident…_

_Arakawa Hideki_

It's clear from the reports and the events themselves that Nakamori has, or at least had, the tacit support of Arakawa. How he managed that is a question for another day, when Kid has more time for historical studies. For whatever reason, Arakawa supported Nakamori over Higashiyama, when the latter's claims were – smugness and self-importance aside – almost certainly more valid. And he did so with the Superintendant of Section One, if not behind him, at least in his general vicinity. Of course, the files in Kid's hand represent a serious weight in favours pulled in. Quite possibly Nakamori has reaped everything he had owing, and more. But it's something to go on, nonetheless.

Kid packs everything up in his bag and then pauses, considering. Phoning would be so much easier. But this isn't exactly the kind of conversation you can have on a payphone and besides, he doubts he would get through before next week. No, this will take a little work.

Well, it's something to keep him busy at least.

He checks his watch. 3:30.

* * *

Kuroba Kaito has been in the Tokyo Police Headquarters four times. Three with – or looking for – Aoko, the fourth on a school trip.

Kaitou Kid has, of course, been here rather more frequently. However, despite the fact that the building is nothing new to him, is in fact so well-visited that it has lost its capacity to inspire more than a smidgeon of nervousness, he has never been on the top floor. It's less the security than that he's simply never had a reason to go. The Superintendant General makes no decisions in the direct running of the Squad, and any larger changes are bound to reach the thief's ears soon enough. Sheer interest in power has never factored into it: Kaitou Kid controls more with a snap of his fingers than the Superintendant General can call up in a day.

That, at least, is the illusion he's grown so used to projecting that he no longer even notices himself doing it.

He was expecting more trouble getting an appointment. Was expecting even the possibility of having to sneak his way into the office and bluff from there. He is thus surprised when his request with the secretary for a meeting – made more just to scout out the situation than of any real hope – is agreed to immediately. Is more than surprised. Is pretty damn suspicious.

Kid is ushered into Arakawa's office pouring all his energy into his part, burying himself deep under the skin he's pulled on, and from beneath it watching with flint-hard eyes. He's expecting a mountain of a man, an impressively impassive surface, a man in the Hattori Heizou dormant volcano mould. He's wrong.

Arakawa Hideki is a wizened husk of a man with dark skin that looks tough as leather and wiry steel-grey hair twisted around his head in a sparse bird's nest. He wears his expensive suit badly, sinking down into the folds of cloth like a turtle into its shell, cuffs bunched messily up away from his wrists. His hands, resting on his desk, are gnarled and twisted as tree roots. As if they were broken in some horrible accident and healed crookedly. In his right is a pen hovering above a pile of complex forms, the fingertips stained yellow.

Kid takes all this in in a split second, even as he crosses the plush office in even – if slightly stiff – strides, stepping around a large table surrounded by half a dozen rolling chairs. He walks straight up to the large desk, set centred in front of a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant Oogawa," says Arakawa in an old man's roughened voice.

"Sir." Kid stops in front of the desk, clicks his heels together and salutes crisply. Arakawa nods, eyes already dropping to cast over the files in front of them. Kid's eyes follow as if drawn by a magnet. The Superintendant General's desk occupies the precarious space between order and chaos, and Kid has the sense he maintains that balance with ease. Although there are several files open and multiple additional papers, faxes and memos scattered around, there is an overall impression of method. The usual impediments of a personal desk – photos, paperweights, pencil holders – are completely absent. Absent, Kid feels, more owing to practicality and the desire to expand the available surface than a minimalist aesthetic.

"I seem to recall," says Arakawa in a dry tone, "that the last time you were here you came to deliver a petition. Seemed to believe it might be mislaid if you submitted it through the proper channels."

_Read: Higashiyama_, thinks Kid. It doesn't take much imagination to piece together the circumstances and the nature of the petition, but Kid doesn't press his luck.

"Yes, sir," he says.

"Well then." Arakawa tidies up the pile of papers he's been reading through, and with his eyes no longer on them Kid is careful to keep his own away. "What can I do for you today, lieutenant?"

And now comes the tricky part. "The Inspector is a busy man," he begins, purposely not meeting the Superintendant General's eyes, allowing for just a hint of conspiracy between the two of them. "Sometimes, tying up loose ends slips his mind." _You know what I mean_, says his tone, sewing implications in between the words. Despite his failure to capture Kid – which Kid doesn't hold against him – Nakamori's a good cop. Unfortunately, he's also picked up a strong sense of fair play somewhere along the line, and that's never a benefit in office politics unless it manages to get you on the right side of others who are not quite so backwards in the game of flag-waving.

Arakawa says nothing, weaves together his gnarled fingers and rests them on the desk, pen drooping between them like an overly-long cigarette.

"I'm sure it will be brought to your attention very soon, sir, but I thought I might just … give it a hand."

"And what is _it_, lieutenant?" Arakawa asks, crisply. His tone completely fails to suggest where he stands in regards to this irregular meeting, but Kid knows how to deal with poker faces. Even ones as good as this. He ploughs right on.

"There have been several breeches of conduct in Division Two, sir. Breeches of conduct instituted at the order of Superintendant Higashiyama, and directly affecting Inspector Nakamori and the Kaitou 1412 Task Force."

Arakawa does not precisely move, but seems to harden in his seat, sitting still as stone with eyes hard as granite. For a small man, he projects a tremendous weight. Kid respects the skill required, respects it all the more since it's almost certainly not a conscious effort but simply a natural attribute. "That's a serious allegation."

"Yes, sir."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

Kid pauses, shifts as if in nervousness. "Superintendant Higashiyama has ordered an internal investigation on the Task Force, including a seizure of our records. He has also temporarily put the Squad on leave, ostensibly due to the kidnappings. As you are aware, sir, while he has the power to order us stood down, only Internal Affairs may conduct an investigation of a Squad's files."

"Thank you, lieutenant," says Arakawa, in a tone which suggests he needn't state the obvious. Chastised, Kid – Oogawa – continues, sticking more carefully to the facts and leaving interpretation alone.

"The Superintendant has also ordered wire taps on the Inspector's phone, and possibly those of other members of the Squad." _Wire taps he could not have had approved_, Kid is careful not to state. "In addition, there has just been an incident on the roof of Mitsukoshi in Ginza."

Arakawa's eyes flash, but Kid cannot tell whether he's heard or not. He's sure Higashiyama wouldn't have been so quick to broadcast his catastrophe, but if Hattori Heizou has been contacted all bets are off. The Superintendent General says nothing, but he's listening with his eyes, and so Kid continues.

"A teenage boy – Hattori Heiji," he drops the name casually, "has been shot with a tranquiliser rifle, at the Superintendant's express orders. He was then arrested, despite Inspector Nakamori's continued protests. I can assure you, sir, there were no grounds for arrest. Or the assault," he throws in, as a parting shot.

Arakawa moves at least, dislodging himself in a series of small movements like a landslide. He breaks his hands apart with a twist of effort and taps the end of his pen on a blue memo. "And now?" he asks, vaguely.

Kid pauses, but there's only one answer he wants to make to that, and he makes it. "The medics were arriving when we left; I assume Hattori-kun has been taken to the nearest hospital along with the Superintendant."

Arakawa's face indicates this is not the information he asked for. "Where is Inspector Nakamori, in the midst of this upheaval?" No sarcasm, but a frosty casualness which is more worrying.

"I'm not sure, sir," he replies with some honesty. The Inspector _could _have left the storeroom… He fends off the question with his one ace. "We all have a lot on our minds."

"Of course," allows Arakawa, sympathetically. There is no sympathy in his eyes, only hard watchfulness. "It's commendable that you came here to speak to me given your current situation," he adds, Kid fighting not to narrow his eyes. He's definitely beginning to regret coming. This man is too damn sharp by half.

"It's important to keep busy," he says flatly. "Sir," he is forced to add, almost having forgotten, not used to speaking to a superior like this. _You're falling out of character_, his mind screams at him. _Get the hell out_.

"I have some hopeful reports from Section One," a couple of taps of the pen. "Our best men are on the case."

"Thank you, sir." Kid keeps his tone neutral, in an _Is this interview over now?_ kind of way.

"Very well. I will look into your claims. Give my regards to Inspector Nakamori."

"Yes, sir." He salutes, long and stiff. Arakawa gives a vague nod, and he turns to go. He's stopped halfway out of the room.

"Oh, one more thing, Oogawa."

"Yes, sir?"

"How did Higashiyama come to have Hattori shot?"

Kid turns halfway, aware of the eyes on him long before he can see them. "He mistook him for Kaitou Kid, sir."

"Really?" drawls Arakawa, eyes boring into him like a drill. "How unfortunate."

"Yes, sir." _Poker face, poker face, poker face. _He's had worse. He's shaken worse. He's deceived worse. If he keeps repeating it, it might become true.

"Very well."

Kid slips out of the room, with a ridiculous feeling that he's just slipped a noose. Completely, utterly, ridiculous. Of course.

TBC


	11. Storm Clouds

Notes: My vacation was pretty awesome; I got to swim with tropical fish which was a first. So thanks to everyone for your patience! Next chapter won't be for at least a week, but things are definitely speeding towards a conclusion.

* * *

The Kaitou Kid Task Force may be the butt of the Force's jokes, but when it comes down to it they're a decent squad. With the reformation of the Task Force Nakamori arranged most of the appointments – with the approval of Arakawa and Tsutomi – and with years of experience he was able to gather a good team. He had the pick of the new year's graduates, and was allowed a number of more senior transfers to even out the experience average. Of course, as soon as Higashiyama took over as Division head he put a stop to the siphoning of good men into what the Superintendant deemed a wasted squad, but those already assigned had the protection of Arakawa's stamp on their appointments.

Tonight, Nakamori find out just how good his choices were.

Dusk falls quicker than usual on account of the storm clouds now rolling thick and heavy in the dark skies above, wind finally beginning to pick up. The rain hasn't started yet, but Nakamori can feel it coming, can smell it in the warm air. The squad is gathered around him in Kid's storeroom; the fluorescent lights have brightened from their earlier slightly orange tinge to a brilliant arctic white and paint everything in a harsh division of light and dark. Some of the men are sitting cross-legged on the floor but most are lounging around the walls, murmuring quietly to each other, going over maps, checking equipment. Near one wall several boxes sit on a pair of cheap collapsible tables scavenged by Oogawa. Some hold police tape, rain slicks, already-tested radios, bolt-cutters, plastic ties to supplement handcuffs. One is filled with Kevlar vests. Everything has been checked and tagged, is ready to go. Just like the men, who are trying not to fidget, to continually glance at the clock, to pace, to keep from doing all the things men waiting for the order to move out do to fill the time. In one corner, Takarai is checking every aspect of his equipment for the third time with a slow painstakingness which does not come naturally to him. Sawara is sitting in a corner staring at the floor, still and silent. Oogawa is sitting on one of the two folding chairs he acquired, flipping through a book of maps, eyes not focused on the pages. Nakamori is tracing the corners of the cigarette packet in his pocket with his thumb and watching the room. Waiting, just like all of them.

There's a rattle of the doorknob and in an instant the thick, heavy atmosphere of the room intensifies, like thousands of charged particles suddenly hitting a critical mass and flowing downwards in a lightning bolt. Every pair of eyes on the room is focused on the door as it creaks open, a gust of wind ripping through the room in a tight curve and catching up unanchored papers. Then the door is slammed shut, leaving a man Nakamori's never seen leaning against it. The clothes, however, are familiar.

Kaitou Kid glances up through windswept bangs and smiles at the gathered policemen.

"All done," he says. Pulls something out of thin air and tosses it to Oogawa, who catches it against his chest in an awkward movement. "You'll want to listen to that later, in case it comes up." He's speaking in his usual voice, pitched just a touch lower. Without the costume to amaze and distract, Nakamori supposes he's taking care not to be recognized as younger than would be helpful to him right now, true as it would be.

Oogawa makes a wordless noise of acquiescence and tucks away what in a pocket Nakamori recognized in the air as a mini tape.

A tremor has passed through the squad, who have by now realised who's standing in front of them. They're looking at him mostly with a kind of guarded distrust, like men who would like to criticise but can't afford to offend. Takarai, after one glance, returns to his work with slightly unsteady hands. Sawara never looks up.

Nakamori, glancing at his watch, realises Kid has probably timed his return to require him to spend as little time as possible cooped up with the men – a good choice considering how edgy they all are. He glances at the large piece of foolscap they've pinned up on the wall, with a hand-drawn map of the area represented carefully on it. Various coloured pins have been stuck in to represent teams and times, to show planned routes and possible detours. They've accounted for nearly all possibilities in the hours they've been waiting. Waiting, like predators, for night to fall.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kid looking over the plan, the thief's eyes flickering every now and then to the men assembled around the room as if assessing the teams' potentials.

Nakamori pushes away from the wall and clears his throat, feels the attention of the room track back to him. "You all know your assignments," he says gruffly. "You know your teams and your routes and your back-ups. You know the plan; it's a good one. But you also know we're going into this on our own, and if we're forced to call in back-up it'll be twenty minutes before it comes. This is not an official case, and I am not ordering you to take part in it. No man here should feel that he is being pressured into participating, and I will emphasize now," he slows to glance around the room, pins each man with his eyes and drives his point home, "that by doing so you are risking not only your jobs but your lives. I will not resent man who walks out the door now; on the contrary, I'll think he has a good measure of self-preservation."

There is a long pause, and an absolute stillness. Not a man fidgets, moves, breaths. Not a man makes any move to show him contemplating leaving.

"Alright then," says Nakamori after half a minute, each second ringing long and deep in his mind. "You have my thanks, and my gratitude. And those of the other men. If push comes to shove with HQ, you can count on my support for what it will be worth."

"With respect, sir," says Hoshino from a corner, "no one here's worried about his job now. The kids're all that matter."

There's a general lightening in the atmosphere, nods and murmurs of agreement. Nakamori waits for it to pass, then nods once himself. "Then suit up. You've all got your travel instructions; we move out in five minutes."

"Yes, sir!"

The room churns from stillness to controlled activity instantly, men pushing away from walls and standing to line up for their equipment, or securing anything they had in their hands. There are no uniforms, but they've all found alternatives to the usual clasps and holsters, even if that alternative is just a belt or pocket. It's the one compromise Nakamori is unhappy about; a man pulling a weapon – pulling any piece of equipment – from a place other than where he has been trained to find it will by necessity be slower, and that loss of speed could have devastating consequences. But there is no alternative. He tries not to think about it, is confident that his own weapon is at least in its usual shoulder-holster under an old windbreaker. Is where he has split-second access to it, and is fully loaded.

Oogawa brings him a vest, the only piece of equipment he needs from the tables. He pulls off his thin jacket to slip it on and then dons it again, highly conscious of Kid's presence at his side. "Do you need one?" he asks, knows there are two spares sitting in the bow-sided box.

"I'll manage," replies the thief, turning with shining eyes. Nakamori's not sure whether there's a smile under his carefully neutral expression or not.

"The last thing I need is you getting shot again," he replies, thoughts flashing in quick succession to a snow-covered plaza, to an open rooftop.

"I never pull the same trick twice, Inspector."

He supposes he'll have to be content with that. He can't be worrying about Kid, not now when there's so much else to take care of. The teams are already forming up and making last checks, groups of three or four in total, his own waiting for him on the far side of the rows. He has spread out the family men, one or two to a group. Has partnered Washio with Oogawa in the hopes that that will keep him from doing anything unpredictable, and Takarai with Yamamoto to even out the former's nervousness.

Nakamori picks up the radio he's kept with him since they were brought in, and opens the channel. "Ya-san?"

"Here, sir."

"We're about to head out."

"Roger that."

"Gin out." Not inspired codenames, certainly, but the likelihood of someone using their channel is almost nonexistent.

"Alright, teams one and two move out." They have three teams in cars and a last – his own – going in on public transport. Assuming they make anything like the arrests predicted, they'll certainly have to call for a paddy wagon, but that'll come later. Four cars – with Sawara's – will be more than enough to get the kids and Reina the hell out of there, and that's the priority. The men, led by Sawara, file out past him, nodding crisply as they go. Only Takarai's team is left, and his own. He turns to Kid again, holding back the last car. "Do you want a ride?" Although Kid can drive, he doubts whether the thief has a car available now, and he might want to get on site quickly for some reason of his own without tiring himself with the glider.

Kid grins. "No thanks, once was enough. I'll come with you on the train."

Nakamori starts, and glances at the sheet on the wall. Although their arrival methods are written up there, they're there as notes rather than points to be studied by the group, and as such are jotted down in regularly-sized writing. That Kid can read it from across the room is startling. But then, he supposes he shouldn't really be surprised by anything the thief does anymore.

Nakamori nods, considering, and then again more pointedly to Takarai. "Team three," he says, and indicates the door. Takarai nods, stiffens, and leads the men out in to the darkening evening. Leaving him, Kid, and three men. "You'll come in with my team, then." He has until now indulged the thief, because he can hardly do otherwise, but in a controlled operation a random element is nothing but a danger. "You can't go around changing your face, either, or no one'll be able to tell you from the enemy."

Kid's grin emphasizes the fact that two days ago, _he_ was the enemy. Nakamori ignores it. "You've seen the plan. Any questions?"

"No," says Kid, and then turns serious with the ease of slipping on a mask. Shifts into a ready pose, one allowing him to move instantly – Nakamori supposes it's the closest he can come to showing tension. His eyes shine darkly. "You are aware that we're dealing with very dangerous people? I don't condone violence, and certainly not loss of life, but your men must know to protect themselves and the hostages." He says it in a flat, dangerous voice that raises the hairs on Nakamori's back. One of Kid's few constant features, few unbreakable rules, is an absolute refusal to cause injury. And he has just, in effect, told Nakamori that they may very well have to shoot first and ask questions later.

"What do you know?" Nakamori asks, watching those diamond-bright eyes. "What aren't you telling me?" _Who are these bastards?_

"All I know, Inspector, is what I told you: that they are dangerous. Very dangerous." He pauses, eyes flashing again, and then continues in a low, harsh voice which Nakamori has never heard before, "I will _not_ have children's blood spilled. Or your men's. Or yours."

Nakamori knows that feeling like fire knows flames, has spoken similar words, sworn similar vows. But there is an absolute conviction in Kid's voice that goes beyond anything he's ever managed, an intensity that burns. It says that he can and will do anything – walk through walls, cut through steel, catch a bullet – to prevent it. Nakamori almost, _almost_ believes it. Gods help him, _wants_ to believe it.

He's not entirely sure he ever realised entirely how dangerous _Kid_ is.

"Don't do anything stupid," he grits out through what feels like a mouthful of marbles. Doesn't want for an answer, instead nods to his men. "Come on."

"Yes, sir." They hurry forward to follow him out the door. Kid exits last, and locks up.

* * *

It's rush hour, and the trains are busy. Busy, but not packed out here away from the downtown core. No seats, but no crush of bodies, no fighting for air and space. Kid lounges up against a pole, doesn't bother to hold on to anything.

Less than a year ago, Nakamori would never have believed he could fall.

He shouldn't be so worried. Kid can – and has always – look after himself. But there's something about the thief that makes him nervous now. It's almost unnoticeable – probably would be to anyone who hasn't been at this as long as the Inspector has – but he's too laid back and simultaneously too hard, flashing from one to the other without quite managing his usual cocky middle ground. Nakamori has the odd feeling that under all his acts he's somehow cold and rigid, like frozen earth in January, and consequently can't manage to balance out his acts quite right. That for some reason the Inspector doesn't quite understand this has hurt him badly, and his way of dealing with it is leaving him as unsteady as the rest of them.

For only the second time in the Inspector's career, Kid seems wholly, entirely human. And humans can be hurt, so very easily.

They make their transfer without incident, slipping on and off the emptier train without any notice. There is only a trickle of others disembarking at their stop, the station dingy and empty. They pass the turn stalls and exit out into a dingy city evening.

The air near the station is thick with the smell of ramen broth, the streets near the station packed with evening restaurants, some open-air counters. Nakamori produces a well-worn baseball cap from one pocket of his blazer and pulls it down over his short hair with a sharp tug. He's by far and away the most recognizable member of the Squad, the only one to have been in the papers or on TV, although the other victimized men will be wearing caps or toques as well.

Nakamori has never been to this neighbourhood, has only even passed through the train station a handful of times. But he's burned the area map into his mind with the bright brand of fear, and has no trouble finding his way. Has to work at seeming less focused, less driven. His men are better at it than he is, one wandering from shop to shop examining meal prices, the other two walking leisurely along chatting about soccer. Kid is walking with his eyes on his hands, idly flipping through a thin wallet. Nakamori wonders if it's his.

The thief still wears his satchel, although now it's simply slung over one shoulder rather than across his chest. It's still early enough in spring to be chilly, and his thin jacket must not provide much protection, although if he's cold he shows no sign of it.

The school is fifteen minutes' quick walk from the train station and they make it in twenty-five, splitting up along the way to take different routes. Kid is the last to peel away, disappearing without a word; when Nakamori glances over his shoulder a block from the school, the thief is simply gone.

He passes team two on the north corner of the school without acknowledging them, wishes he had thought to buy some groceries or bring something to carry to make himself less suspicious. A glance shows Hoshino waiting up ahead with a newspaper under his arm, Murata and Ohara standing in the shadow of a doorway a little further down. Nakamori glances casually at the school as he crosses a narrow road, notes that what he can see of its buildings over the wall is dark. He stops beside a light post, considers lighting up a cigarette for something to do, but fears attracting attention with even the tiny flame of his lighter, the tinier still glowing tip of the cig. Instead he simply leans up against it and, back to the school, pulls out his radio.

"Team four in place." They should have been the last, coming indirectly as they did. "Report in."

"Team one in place." Sawara and two others, sitting in their car in the parking lot on the other side of the school, closest to the entrance with the cut chain.

"Team two in place." Oogawa, Washio and two more, standing around the corner of a nearby building and thus out of immediate sight of the school but in his own field of vision, far to his right.

"Team three in place." Yamamoto, Takarai and another, around the corner from Sawara.

"Any sign of movement?"

"Nothing," replies Washio. "Nothing all day, no lights now." No indication of where in the building the hostages are. If they're there at all.

Nakamori is horribly, twistingly aware that they are running their entire operation, pouring all their hopes into a plan based on a telephone signal and a rusty chain.

"All right," he orders, gruffly. "Move in."

* * *

Maihara Junior High School follows the typical school format. Two long parallel buildings each four stories tall. Every floor of both buildings has been provided with a long balcony on the southern side with doors into all classrooms; the two buildings are joined at both ends by walkways connecting each floor, making a rectangle of the school. In the centre is a dark courtyard, probably now filled with weeds and abandoned junk. The gym is connected to the southern building – the main building – by a tin-roofed walkway. Near it sit a few outbuildings; storage sheds, the wood and metalwork building. It's the kind of place delinquents would hang out and children would dare each other to visit at night. Nakamori's sure there are plenty of local legends, the usual horror stories. He prays they won't add another tonight.

Odds are if anyone's here they're in the secondary building, the one with the chain removed from its doorway. But there's no reason they couldn't have picked the flimsy locks of the sliding doors opening out onto the connecting walkways. Technically, there's not even any reason for them to be in the same place, although it would make more sense unless they've got more than a dozen men. Assumptions are dangerous animals, though, and he's been careful to steer clear of them.

One team, Oogawa's, will sweep the main building. One, Yamamoto's, will sweep the grounds for patrolling guards and to keep an exit clear. The final two, his and Sawara's, will take the secondary building.

The fence surrounding the school is about a metre and a half tall, made of stucco-covered concrete. The barred metal gate, on wheels to allow it to be easily opened, is now chained shut, and only three feet tall. But that's an obvious point of entry, and they avoid it. He's aware even as he slips closer, men following him, of the fourth silent figure following them: Kid. He drifts along like a ship in the fog, utterly soundless where they are only quiet.

They've chosen a point protected by heavy shrubbery, reported to them by Washio and Yamamoto earlier in the afternoon, as their entrance point. Even in the weak light thrown by the streetlights it's easy enough to pick out; there's a large cherry tree marking the spot.

As they cross the concrete to the wall it starts to rain, so thin and fine that it might almost be a thick mist. In the yellow street light it falls like a shower of gold. Nakamori huffs, and watches his breath fade in the cold, damp air. He reaches the wall, bent low, and glances back. His men are spread out along it, each ducked low enough to keep his head from being visible over the top. Taking a deep breath and locking it in with gritted teeth, Nakamori raises his own head to look over.

The streetlights are on the other side of the street from the school, and hardly any of their light makes it over the wall and through the shrubs along it. Nakamori can see the shadowy bulk of the secondary building some fifteen metres away from the wall, its narrow end presented to him. He sees no movement.

There is no door in the narrow wall he's faced with; he'll have to duck around to either the already open right side, or the still-locked left. Hoshino behind him has the bolt-cutters, and coming in from that door would give them the element of surprise, but they can't cut it silently and odds are the door is locked as well as chained. The Inspector glances back at his men and makes a motion with his right hand to indicate which door they'll take. The men nod. Kid simply watches him, one tiny streak of light caught in his eyes like a flame in a glass bottle.

Resisting the urge to brush a hand against the butt of his pistol – _don't be an idiot, you _know_ it's there_ – he turns back to the wall, puts his hands flush on the top, bunches, and leaps.

Nakamori's tall enough that he doesn't really need to take an added boost from the top of the wall, but he does so to control his descent and come down quietly in the shrubbery. With the falling damp the bushes are soft and quiet, an unlooked-for blessing. He scuttles forwards, out of the way of the others, and ducks down behind an uncontrolled camilla shrub. There's a quiet rustle as the others scramble over; he turns just in time to see Kid slip down soundlessly and duck in against the cherry tree's trunk. Nakamori pauses for a second, heart hammering against his chest, and then reaches into his jacket and pulls out his pistol. Catches the eyes of his men and watches them do the same.

What Kid thinks doesn't matter – if anyone points a weapon at the kids or his men, _he_ will take them down. And gods help them if they've touched, _touched_, Aoko.

Nakamori allows himself a couple of seconds' peering around the bush and planning his path – it's too dark for him to be able to see more than the vague outline of concrete – before rushing out from behind the bush and across the gap between the wall and the building. His shoe toe catches once on an unevenness in the concrete, but his momentum carries him through the stumble and brings him up against the cool surface of the building. His men are only a heart's beat behind him.

Across the courtyard, near the main building, he catches sight of movement out of the corner of his eye and flattens himself up against the cracked stucco. Sees several men duck furtively into the shadow of the building, and knows it must be team one.

There's always that one second before the fall, before the leap, before the plunge when the outcome is utterly uncertain, and he's submerged in it now. Suffused with a sudden desire to stay here, to turn back, because uncertainty is better than an empty building or gods forbid, a building empty _of life_. It passes in the blink of an eye, faster than a lightning strike, faster than a thought, but the terror remains. He locks it away as well as he can in the cage of his chest, cold and cutting, and tightens his grip on the smooth handle of his pistol. Stands, and swings around the corner.

There's both a shallow ramp and a couple of steps leading up to the door. He takes all the steps at once and then has the door's handle in his hands, is pulling it open and flowing into the dark space beyond with a furious haste, face locked into a snarl.

There is no one there.

The men follow him, Hoshino barging right in on his heels, the other two slipping in more quietly. Kid, as before, he doesn't hear at all, and the thief falls back into the thickest shadow as if by instinct.

They've entered into a wide space with walls on both the right and left, and a corridor ahead to the right. The wall on the right, he knows from a knowledge of school layouts rather than by sight, is the side of the wide staircase that will lead all the way up to the fourth floor. The left is that of the building's outside wall.

It's just as well that he knows what to expect from the layout, because he can't see a damn thing. There are no lights here, and although the corridor which will lead all the way down the length of the building has windows looking out, very little of the streetlights' glow has filtered in. He pauses and waits for his night vision to focus, for his pupils to widen as far as they will. It isn't much.

He lets out his breath just loud enough to be audible as a signal, and moves forwards with his elbow against the wall, both hands on his weapon. Creeps forward into the darkness.

They approach the corridor at a snail's pace, Nakamori edging forwards, taking care not to scuff his shoes. It's odd to be wearing them inside, but it's easy to ignore that tiny misgiving when he has so many greater ones. As they move closer to the foot of the stairs, it becomes obvious that they've been blocked by what looks like a thick snarl of rubbish, although in the dark Nakamori can't make it out. Whatever it is, it's not the normal state of things, and that's a relief. A hint. _You're on the right track_.

He hits the corner, looks around, and knows it.

Standing halfway down the hall is a man, faintly silhouetted in the mist of light pouring in through the windows. Standing with the unmistakable stiffness and presence of a guard. Nakamori throws out his arm to stop Hoshino, grabs his shoulder and holds him back. The younger man is tense under his hand.

The elation ringing in his head bright and strong as church bells is almost enough to drown out his common sense, and he struggles to force down his sudden overpowering relief. No one leaves a guard to guard nothing, much less corpses. The children, some of the children, one child at least, is here, and that is enough.

He prays selfishly, greedily, thoughtlessly, that it may be Aoko.

Nakamori is just considering the best way to go about getting rid of the guard, when something rattles at the other end of the hall. He pulls his head back in sharply, pushing the men back with him, and waits for five heart beats. It's no sort of measure at all, not now when his heart is pounding fast as a train over connection points. When he looks out again, the man is hurrying down the corridor to the other end, to the door team three is entering by. Whether they drew attention to themselves purposely or not, he doesn't know. But Sawara is with them, and they will be on their guard. He, at least, will be. Nakamori grits his teeth, and moves.

He rounds the corner in an instant, glancing up the stairs and seeing now that they've been blockaded by broken chairs and desks stacked on the steps and at the bottom, furniture doubtless originally abandoned along with the building. It would be impossible to climb up them. He wonders fleetingly why they bothered – did they expect an invasion from the roof down? – but there's not time for speculation. He hurries forward, noticing the guard disappearing into the dark at the other end of the corridor; around the corner to the door there.

The classrooms are all on the right, each lined windows from the waist up looking out into the corridor, and two sliding doors to give access. He's just ascertained that the first room is empty when, without warning, the night erupts into chaos.

It must have been Sawara's group, he knows later, but at the time all he hears is a gunshot, and then two more, and then children are screaming and doors are rattling open and _he is running_.

He covers the distance between the stairs and the guard's original position in what seems like no time at all, as if he took one step and was simply there. But fast as he is two men have already run out into the hall, are turning to face him and the others following him, and he doesn't have to be able to see to know that they have guns in their hands. And that in the room beside them the children are screaming, held by gods know how many more of the bastards who might be lining up their shots _right the hell now_.

Nakamori actually barrels into the first man before either of them has time to shoot, shoes slipping on the dusty floor, momentum sending them both flying down the hall. He's fumbling to push the man's gun away – at this distance he's not sure even Kevlar would be enough – when they hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash, the Inspector on top. The man's gun goes off then, and he feels it tear through his vest at an angle almost parallel to his chest. And then he is slamming the bastard's head into the floor and bringing down all his weight and every limb he can to knock the man into unconsciousness if not further. It's enough; the struggles under him cease and he gives one last knee to the gut as he stands. Takes in the second man on the floor with someone on top of him, someone else on the floor nearby either sitting or kneeling.

Outside there are more gunshots, and shouting, and to his left footsteps ring out. "Who is it?" he snarls, on his feet again with his blood pounding hot and fast through his temples.

"Sawara," is the answer, and he doesn't wait for more because above all the other sounds the children are still crying. He wrenches the sliding door open with so much force that it actually flies off its rails and crashes to the floor and barges in, Sawara right behind him.

He can't see much; there is even less light to filter in through the courtyard-windows than there is for those facing outwards to the street, but he can just barely make out a figure with an adult's height but an odd shape. For an instant, he thinks it must be Sawara Reina. But a woman's muffled hiss of, "Yuu," from his right tells him he is wrong. And then he doesn't have to guess anymore.

"Take one step closer and I'll kill her," says a faceless voice, accompanied by a child's sob, held tight in the bastard's grip. Nakamori can't see the gun, but the odds of it being a bluff are almost non-existent, and even if they weren't he could never take them.

"What do you want?" he asks, gruffly. He can hear the children in here, sniffling and scraping along the walls, and grabs the officer he feels coming in behind him and shoves him towards the nearest. Sawara is at his side – he can hear the man breathing as though he has run a marathon – standings stiff.

"Call off your men, all of them, and then we'll –" there's a quiet sigh, and a slump. Nakamori starts forward and pulls himself back forcefully.

"It's alright, Inspector," says a familiar voice in the darkness. Then the flick of a lighter.

The one tiny flame is like a spotlight, and Nakamori's eyes are instinctively drawn to it and dazzled in their current state. When he pulls them away and the red tinge drains away from the world, he can see that Kid is standing over an unconscious – he assumes unconscious – man, holding a small child in his arms.

"Oogawa-chan, I presume," the thief says to the infant who, startled enough to stop crying for an instant, starts up again.

It's enough to break the spell of shock that's fallen on all of them without their noticing it. By the light of the single flame Sawara runs forward to his wife, sitting against a wall with a bloody temple and her legs splayed out beneath her in a way which suggests she's been thrown there, and pulls her into a tight embrace. Men surge in behind him – Hoshino, Ishida, Mizawa – and go to the children. He makes a quick head count with what scattered thoughts he can gather, counts 6. Everyone. Everyone except for Aoko, who he noticed from the instant the flame flickered to life, wasn't here. Across the room, Kid's eyes meet his.

Behind him there's the sound of running footsteps, and Oogawa and Washio burst into the room, followed by their men with flashlights. Oogawa's across the room and at Kid's side in a second, speed reminding Nakamori of his own, taking his daughter from the thief and cradling her in his arms. Even Washio, he notes, gathers his daughter to him in a shaking grip, rocking her gently. Kid takes this opportunity to slip across the room to his side. Nakamori is shocked to see no elation, no satisfaction there. Only a harsh determination.

The thief is just as aware as he is that one hostage is still missing, and it seems to the Inspector, is almost as concerned.

Things need to happen, and he needs to make them happen. But it's all he can do to make room for a single extra thought in the shadow of the hulking terror looming in his mind – _she's not here she's not here she's not here_. She's not here which means she's somewhere else and oh gods they could be doing anything to her even while he's _thinking this_. He can't be worrying about all these petty details, but that's _his job_. So he siphons them through one at a time, fast and furious as pistol shots.

"Oogawa," he barks, and the man turns with – Nakamori's heart clenches – tears in his eyes. He wipes them away hastily and salutes, daughter held easily with one arm.

"Sir!"

"Give me a brief report."

"We checked the first floor, then heard the shooting and came out. Team two encountered a pair of guards and arrested them – Eguchi was grazed in the shoulder," he nods to a man standing near the door, a dark trench coat stained darker in a patch about the size of a man's palm. "We found another man unconscious at the door of this building and ran in."

_Next. _"Sawara?"

"We took him out without casualties, sir."

_Next._ Nakamori looks to his men, realises he can give no such accounting of his own group. Turns and glances out into the hall, which by the now bright light he can see clearly. The two men they knocked out lie spread on the floor. Murata is sitting against the wall, holding his head, and Nakamori steps over to him.

"Murata?"

"Knocked me against the window-frame. Just rattled, sir." He rubs his head again, but when he looks up at the Inspector his eyes focus well. Nakamori nods.

"When the paramedics show up, check in with them."

"Yes, sir."

_Next. _"Hoshino, cuff these men; you and Ohara are responsible for them." He glances to Oogawa. _Next. _"Where's team two?"

"Still patrolling, sir."

"Alright. Ishida, Mizawa, go out and take over for Takarai and Yamamoto, tell them to come in and that the kids are fine."

"Yes, sir." The two salute and slip out.

_Next. _"Eguchi, Satou, go and gather the three men out there together; you're responsible for them. Eguchi, can you manage with that shoulder?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright – you report to the medics when they show up as well, got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

_Finished. _Everything else is out of the way, and it all sieves from his mind instantly. Keeping his thoughts focused took everything he had, and he's almost sweating with the effort.

With the departure of the men, he finds left with just the fathers of the children. And Kid. His thoughts are tunnelling, are focusing sharp as a sniper scope on the goal, and there is no time for thought. Just questions and answers, snapping back and forth like blows.

"Sir," says Oogawa, dark eyes on him. He doesn't say anything more, knows as well as the rest of them must that Nakamori has almost nothing on his mind apart from what is currently not in the room.

His daughter. _Aoko_.

"The stairwell on this side was blocked. What about the other, Sawara?"

"I didn't notice, sir."

"It was," says Washio, who would have had a flashlight to see it by as he ran past.

"Then odds are she's upstairs." Upstairs with at least one captor who must have heard the attack, who must know he's trapped there with a hostage that may very well by a millstone around his neck and oh gods _he's wasted so much time_. Nakamori closes his throat on a moan, but he can feel himself blanching. He pulls out his radio with shaking hands. "Tsurada?"

"Sir?"

"Someone might try to get out of the main building's doors; split up and keep a watch on both sides of the building."

"Yes, sir."

He cuts the channel, and glances to Kid.

"You can get up there, can't you?" It'll take time to clear the stairs, time Aoko might not have. Time that might already be –

"Yes," says Kid harshly, already moving. Nakamori grabs his arm and pulls him back, thief swivelling sharply with wide eyes. Wild eyes, like last night's.

"Not like that," he says, inarticulately. Then, "Someone she knows, someone she'll trust."

"You?" The boy's tone isn't sarcastic, but there's strong doubt there.

"No, someone they won't know. Her – Kuroba Kaito. Her school friend – you must have seen him, he's come to your heists with her."

"I know him," says Kid, in an odd tone.

"Can you–?"

"I'll manage," cuts in Kid, grimly. "I'll go up by the balcony; tell your men not to take a shot at me."

The Inspector feels no anger at that, no outrage. His fear is great enough that he doesn't even notice the thief has dropped all semblance of levity. Is harsh and brittle as flint.

And then he's gone, and Nakamori is on the radio again.

TBC


	12. The Storm

His heartbeat is ringing in his ears, slicing seconds off the present, keeping time for him when the last thing he wants to know is how much has passed. If she's been touched, been hurt, been – the full weight will fall on his shoulders. _He shouldn't have waited_.

The storm is starting to blow in earnest now. Harsh winds are whipping up from the south – warm, but sharp all the same. The rain is coming down in cords, drowning the moist earth. The air tastes of lightning.

It takes less time to rip the damp mask from his face – damp with humidity, with rain, with sweat – than it does for him to sprint outside. He throws it carelessly away; it is gone from his thoughts as soon as it's out of his hands. _He shouldn't have waited_.

There are no lights outside, only the gently glow of the flashlights in the first floor room. Even as he's evaluating his route up, they go out. Nakamori, trying to reduce the pressure on whoever might up upstairs, to convince them the danger's gone.

As if anyone would fall for that.

As soon as he knew she wasn't there, as soon as the kid was safe, he should have gone after her. Shouldn't have waited for the goddamn cops, for the reporting, for the orders. What is he, if not a free agent? He can think of a thousand excuses – exhaustion, the instable condition, fear of being shot in the back – but a life can't be bartered with excuses. Failure, no matter the reason, no matter the price of victory, is failure. And failure is a word which is not in the Kuroba dictionary. Not yet.

Kaitou Kid – Kuroba Kaito – pulls in a deep breath despite the clawing in his throat and the ache in his chest, and, standing in the middle of a rainy school courtyard, forces himself to relax. Locks away fear with a very brittle key.

His memory of the building, seen in cloudy afternoon light, and the glance he caught of it before the flashlights went out, are enough even in the dark. He produces a pair of rubber-palmed gloves and slips them on even as he backs away from the building. Runs a hand through his damp but not yet drenched hair, spiking it up unconsciously. Then, taking a breath, he's gone.

Kid pulls the momentum he needs from his sprint, uses it to make the leap to catch the bottom of the rails lining the balcony. Then a kick off the building wall beneath and a _twist_ and he's up on top of the balcony's rail, crouching like an alley cat. From there it's easier, the height between the upper floors less than that between the ground and the second. He's squatting on the fourth floor balcony less than thirty seconds after he left the ground.

Up here the southern building is no protection at all from the elements. The constantly shifting wind slams rain into him like a wall of water every few seconds, pausing playfully as if to throw him off guard, before doing it again.

From his perch he can see the streetlights shining pale in the rain like fireflies in June, like cigarette tips, like embers in a dying fire. They provide no light at all.

The windows here, like those in the downstairs hallway, are set almost a metre up from the floor, which gives him plenty of space to lurk in. He estimates seven regular-sized classrooms, but knows the fourth floor is often dedicated to more specialised pursuits: science, music, cooking. It's too dark to count doors; he can only see the windows by the tiny glimmer of ambient light off the glass, silvery shards in the darkness.

The one single advantage he has is that no one would be looking for invasion from the balcony.

It shouldn't be any harder than a heist, any more dangerous, any more nerve-wracking. But gods, it is.

He creeps along the balcony, heart in mouth, rain streaming into his eyes, ears, mouth, until he thinks he may drown on dry land. Creeps along to the first door and raises his head to glance in. And sees, of course, nothing. It's black as ink.

His lighter is lying heavy in his pocket, but he can't use it. Can't give himself away. Without it, though, he'll never find her. And there's _no time_.

Gloves pocketed, his hand closes cold and wet over the smooth plastic, thumb tracing the notched wheel. Pulls it out slow as he would a splinter, a thorn. Raises it to near window-level, and turns his eyes back to the room.

In the south, beyond the main building, far, far beyond, lightning flashes. Paints in light and shadows alone a large empty room before his eyes.

Kid curses softly and drops the lighter back into his pocket, heart leaping in time with the low roll of thunder. One hand against the wall he stands and hurries along past the second door – each room with two exits, he notes – and slows when he reaches the end of the first bank of windows. Crouches again and moves forwards.

The lightning strikes again before he's quite ready, shows a classroom full of tall tables – either a science room or a kitchen, he can't tell. With so many pieces of furniture in the room, he can't tell at first glance whether anyone is there or not. Waits for a second bolt. Waits. It comes at last, closer now, brighter, and shows nothing but the tall tables – four rows of them. He nods and hurries on, thunder barking at his heels.

Maybe it's instinct, some thief's instinct, some kaitou's instinct that tells him someone is there. Maybe it's a connection, that red string that girls are so keen on believing in. Maybe it's just luck. But for whatever reason, he turns just as lightning arcs down again, and sees a shadow flashed across the wall for a fraction of a second. A shadow with bushy hair.

Kid would usually have considered the best course of action – sneak in through another room and distract; toss a pellet of sleeping gas into the room; show himself and lure away the guard – but he does not have that chance.

He does not have it because there is no time for thought, much less movement. What there is is the false-thunder rumbling of the balcony door being ripped open, and then the forearm crushing his windpipe and the fist in his gut. It happens with the speed of a lightning strike, flashing out of the classroom to spear him against the outside wall. In another second he's been dragged inside by the collar and slammed down on his knees, a large hand shifting to take a firm grasp in Kid's wet hair. There is no mistaking the cold steel pressed against his temple.

"Give me one reason I shouldn't shoot you, cop," says the harsh voice, rough with a coldness that disproves fear. That marks the man as a professional.

Senses stretched completely taut – taut as a tug-rope, taut as a piano-wire, taut as a weighted noose – by the adrenaline, he hears the tiny whisper of a breath from across the room even though it's scarcely louder than the beat of a moth's wings. A breath taken in terror.

Aoko is here. The thought gives him all the strength he needs, lights fire in his veins.

"'M not a cop," he hisses, playing up the youth in his voice, the shaking fear. The hand in his hair twists suddenly, violently, dragging him around until he's facing the windows. They stay there painting a still tableau of waiting, the heavy silence around them holding only two possibilities: horror or hope, to be decided in a sliver of a second.

The lightning comes down. The gun slams cold and sharp against his temple, the slide tearing at his skin. It is infinitely softer than a bullet.

"The hell're you doing here, kid?" It's a tone which suggests he'd better have a damn good reason. Kid is less worried about the consequences of failing to have one than allowing the man to piece together who might be hanging around with a police raid of a kidnapping whose ransom is a master of disguise.

"Aoko," he grits out, and it should be easy to pour out the terror and gut-twisting anxiety he's been drenched in for the past 24 hours, but the training to poker face is easily bone-deep. Acting emotions is one thing, but purposely allowing real ones to leak out, that's harder than not breathing. Goes straight against the grain of his nature.

He's lucky; the conflict comes off in the darkness as the fear he can't show, and that's enough. "Aoko," he repeats, "I came to –" he trails off. Unable to say something as stupidly melodramatic as "rescue," and aware that nothing else really fits. Fortunately, that's not a problem.

"Came to save your girlfriend," says the voice with a sneer that emphasizes more the stupidity of the action than the relationship.

There's a deeper gasp from across the room.

"And why would the cops let you tag along?"

The man is showing more of a brain than is helpful. It seems unlikely that the leader would blockade himself away from his men, but on the other hand securing the arguably most important hostage separately isn't something anyone with intelligence would leave to a grunt.

"Who says they know? I kept an eye on Nakamori-ji-san and when he took off like a bat out of hell all I had to do was follow." With Nakamori's reputation, it at least has the value of believability.

"A tag-along? Well then, you'll be able to tell me what's going on downstairs." A tear-wrenching twist of the hand in his hair advises against lying.

Kid swallows audibly, fighting for time with nervousness which is only partially feigned. "I don't know," he says, knowing it's the only answer he can give which has a chance of flying, and equally aware that every moment he stalls he loses conviction. Now, he has to sell it. "I followed the cops into the building – there was a fight on the first floor, another outside I think. But when it was over they realised Aoko wasn't there. I noticed the stairs coming in, and took off. They were so focused in rushing the main room, I don't think they did. They were splitting up to watch the captives when I left." It's the best he can do. Not very optimistic, but at least not inspiring immediate panic.

There's a long pause, and Kid can feel the man standing absolutely still through the vice-like grip on his hair. It's an unnatural stillness, suggesting thoughts which will take immediate action when decided. He's not wrong.

Kid is hauled up by the scalp, gun still pressed almost absently to his temple, and led across the room. It's a straight path, but he can't tell any more in the darkness. He's flung down into a counter, tall and cool, and then the gun is gone and his hands are being fastened together by a thin piece of plastic which snickers as it's tightened and locked. His ankles are next. It's just as well it's dark, because he's smiling like a cat.

"You just sit there and don't move, and maybe you'll be the lucky one to be left behind."

If he only knew. But Kid says nothing, lets the bastard let him go and slip off towards the door that leads into the corridor.

He should be slipping his bindings. He should be planning. If nothing else, he should be trying to catalogue the layout of the room in the now off-centred bursts of lightning slotting through the windows. Suddenly all he is aware of, though, is Aoko's quivering shoulder next to his. Slow as honey, a pair of hands creep to his arm and fist in his sleeve. The weight on his shoulder increases as Aoko leans against him.

"Kaito," she whispers, more a breath than anything.

It would be easy. So, so easy.

And when she found out, she would hate Kid even more than she does now. He's too damn selfish.

"Not quite," he replies, and allows just a hint of Kid's cockiness to seep into his tone. She stiffens, and then pulls away all at once with a hiss as she works it out. Thankfully, prudence at least keeps her silent.

Now that she's sitting cold and strong as a lump of marble next to him, it's no trouble to focus on what he should be focusing on. He's slipped the bindings in 30 seconds, holding the plastic silent in his lap. And now the only sound is the thunder crashing outside, interposed by long silences.

Downstairs, the policemen must be moving the blockade silently, piece by piece. It will take time, but not an infinite amount. If there's going to be shooting in the dark, he's sure as hell not going to have Aoko anywhere near it.

Kid produces a blade, just a strip of razor in a plastic sheath, and reaches out to Aoko. Grits his teeth and grabs her wrist in a tight grip and waits for her to stop fighting him. He slits the plastic binding as soon as she's still, bends to free her ankles as well. Except that her legs aren't extended in front of her as he'd predicted, are folded up under her. He runs the tips of light fingers along the side of her thigh, waiting with closed eyes for the slap. He feels her tremble instead – in fear of him.

It hurts infinitely more than a strike. Face locked in a blank expression, hands so tense they could dig into chalk, he pauses to reflect.

The easiest way would be to knock her over and expose her ankles that way. But then she would shriek, and even if she didn't probably she would slam back into the counter hard enough to draw very unwanted attention. And, even if that weren't likely, he couldn't do it. Not here and now, when she is so very scared of him.

For the second time he contemplates simply knocking all three of them out. But he's used up all his long-term gas and what's left will only ensure about 15 minutes of unconsciousness. If the cops are too slow, it could wear off before they show up and as the guard has the advantage in size and weight odds are he would wake up first, which would be an utter disaster. Neatly cancelling out all options but escape.

Down is impossible, so it will have to be up.

Heights, fortunately, have never been a problem. If there were any light, his teeth would be flashing.

But first, the bindings. Dropping his hand to the floor, he finds Aoko's heel tucked in under her, and then the bunched fabric of her sock beside it. There's not much exposed, and the angle's bad. But there are no major blood vessels under the surface, just smooth bone. He finds the strip of plastic, only a bare sliver exposed, and slices. Aoko flinches but doesn't cry out. The plastic falls away like a flower opening with the sun.

She is free. And now he will get her the hell out of here.

Closest yet, lightning slices down through the sky like a blade, windows shaking with the aftershock of thunder. In the ringing silence following it, Kid puts his mouth to her ear and hisses, "When I say, hold your breath."

He pulls a handful of capsules from his pocket, emptying its entire contents into his curved palm. They are small and smooth as marbles, but _much _more versatile. Time to go.

Kid, heart counting the half-seconds, grabs Aoko's wrist with his free hand and pulls her around to the side of the counter, away from the guard and towards the far door into the corridor.

The room explodes into white as lightning tears down, thunder following close on its heels.

"Now," shouts Kid, yanks her to her feet, and throws his handful of toys away. He sprints straight for the door with all the speed he has and, turning as he flies, slams into it shoulder-first. The sliding door, sitting in thin grooves, is thrown out of its frame in time with the screams from his shoulder, and then they are in the hall and running. His eyes are tearing from the gas already.

They hit the stairs at the far end of the hall and go up. It's pitch black here, black as the bottom of the sea, with no windows to let in whatever poor light might come.

They trip at the end of the stairs and tumble into the wall. Kid finds the door to the roof with his fingers and, turning the handle in his hands, slams his weight against it good shoulder first. There's a dry creak, and nothing else.

Even Kaitou Kid can't pick locks in the dark. Not when he doesn't know where they are. And he doesn't have time to find them by touch. He has no assurances that the chocking cocktail of sleeping gas, tear gas and simple smoke bombs has stopped pursuit.

Kid slips a penlight into his mouth and then brings out his lockpicks, has them in his hand before he turns the light on. It cuts through the gloom in a strong stroke, lighting the rest of the area in a firefly glow. But there's no time for surroundings; all his attention is focused in a flash on the small padlock securing the door. It's open in five seconds, flashlight off and in his pocket in another two.

And then there is the tempest of the roof.

It's no longer raining; the air is simply filled with water. It pounds against them in waves, coming from all directions as the wind whips and shears it like a weapon. Two seconds after stepping away from the shelter of the building, Kid is soaked to the skin.

Aoko gasps now as water drives against her face; it's like being constantly pelted by water balloons, by buckets of water, so relentless that breathing is difficult. For an instant, Kid is too shocked by the onslaught to be able to think, but he recovers quick as a whip crack. Recovers, and runs.

There is no possibility of using the glider; with perfect weather conditions on a high hill, four stories – five on the roof – might be enough to scrape out a clean take-off, but he has none of those things, and addition the glider's weight would be almost doubled. The only option is to get to the ground like the student he is pretending to be.

With the storm there is no chance of light, but he knows that the walkways connecting the two school buildings will also connect the roofs, and he knows that the further away he gets from the door before beginning the slower and more dangerous process of getting Aoko back inside, the better. And, he knows approximately how many of his strides it will take them to reach the far walkway.

It turns out to be completely irrelevant.

There is no warning. There is only Aoko's shrill scream in his ears as she falls, and the clap of thunder which is not thunder. Is the sound of a gun shot.

He goes down with her, grip on her wrist unbreakable while his traction on the slick surface of the roof is tenuous. He slips forward on the shallow film of water and lands cat-like on his hands and knees. Aoko beside him lands on her side, skidding to a stop with a whimper.

Kid's – Kaito's – fear runs through his veins like gasoline, thick and choking. And then she moves against him, and his fury is a match. Fire licking through him, teeth locked tight in a snarl of rage, he moves to crouch in front of her. With Aoko keening behind him, he wishes for the first time in his life he had a weapon in his hands. His fury burns like a wild fire, liquid hot, white hot. He means to curse, but the sound which slips through his teeth is older and deeper than words, an animal's growl.

In the shifting waves of rain which allow a glimmer of light only bright enough to emphasize the shadows, he can barely make out the blocky shape of the stairwell. The bastard is safe standing against it, but they can hardly be more visible; the shot which hit Aoko must have been a lucky guess.

Kid can't hear him, can't see him, but the bastard must be advancing. And here in the rain and the dark, with Aoko god knows how wounded behind him, he has _so few fucking options_. He'll fight to protect her if he has to, but he was never good with his fists and he knows there's only one way that will end.

Kid turns to glance over his shoulder. "Aoko," he hisses, voice so harsh it sounds like he's the one who's been shot. "Aoko – you'll have to run. I can't buy much time." There's never been anything he couldn't do before, at least that he would admit to, and he can feel the certainty and cold calculation that is Kid draining away. But there's nowhere for her to run to, she's no magician, no acrobat. She can't get off this roof without him, and he won't get off with her.

For the first time in his life, Kid is not sure he can win.

"Kaito," says Aoko from behind him, voice weak and wavering, a whisper in the wind.

"I'm right here," says Kaito, as the last strands of Kid slip from his fingers, and tenses to spring. He will sure as hell not go down without giving everything he has, and more.

_I'm sorry, Aoko. Gods, I'm sorry_.

Ahead of him, he catches a hint of movement, a black shape in a world of silver rain. He fists his hands, heart burning, and waits for the next step.

And then, breaking through the heaving of the storm and the hissing of the rain, is a cheap metallic tune. Kaito recognises the refrain of EXILE's _Fly Away_. In what feels like a dream, everything stops. And then starts again as the man pulls out a cell phone and snaps it open. And Kaito, recognising his one chance, uses it.

Even as he moves, he can hear the conversation, although it sounds like it's coming from the other side of a drainpipe.

"Sir, what – yes, sir. No, sir. But – yes, sir. Yes, sir. Understood sir. Right away, sir."

The click of the phone closing is like a skull's teeth clattering shut. In Kaito's arms, Aoko shivers. He steps backwards, and feels the raised edge of the roof pressing against his calf.

Seven metres away, a flashlight flares to life and turns on them, trapping them in its blinding beam.

All he needed was one more ounce of luck. One single ounce, he thinks as the gun he can't see is levelled at them.

Directly above them, the sky splits open. Brighter than any bulb, brighter than fire, brighter than the sun, lightning descends and paints the world white.

Kaito jumps off the roof.

* * *

Even deafened by thunder so loud his ear drums ache, Kaito falls in silence thicker than velvet, dropping with rather than through the rain. It's surreal, like a movie, or a book, or anything where he is an observer rather than an actor.

And then the line tied to his glider's harness snaps taut hard enough to wind him, and he slams back-first in through the first floor window, and it instantly becomes very clear who the actor is.

* * *

The glass rains down around him with a sound that is momentarily like the chirping of hundreds of swallows, lined up on telephone wires waiting for the fall migration. Then the last pieces fall and Kaito stops listening. In the pale glow of flashlights shining in from the classroom directly across the hall, he can see officer Washio standing in front of him, gun out and aimed straight at his heart. Kaito, hanging from the rope, arms full and shoulder aching, sways slightly in the sudden dearth of sound. The boy looks into the policeman's shadowed eyes, and realises with a kind of exhaustion that he can't read what's written there.

They stay frozen like that for several moments which seem much longer than they are, trickling by slow as icebergs. It's Aoko who breaks the heavy stillness by twisting in his arms; he glances down and sees a sliver of light reflected in her eyes as she watches him.

And just like that, he is Kaitou Kid again.

Raising his head sharp as a sword-stroke, he catches the man's eye and holds it.

"Call Nakamori. Tell him there's an armed man on the roof, and that the east roof access in this building is unlocked. Then call an ambulance. Do it now." His voice is a whip, and the man reacts to it; pulls his radio from his belt and opens the channel.

Kid pulls a knee up high to support Aoko's legs. In a second he's snapped a dagger of glass from the window frame and sliced through the rope holding them in the air – he lands with a crunch on the lake of glass below. Without bothering to wait he strides through the corridor and into the room opposite.

Oogawa's head snaps up as he enters, hand at his side. It falls away when he recognizes Kid, eyes widening. Sitting and lying around him, asleep and motionless, are the kids. Sawara's wife is sitting near Oogawa with her back to the wall, looking pale and slightly stressed. She startles at the sight of them.

Kid ignores them, just walks straight in and kneels jerkily to lay Aoko down on the floor. He can see her now, see her for the first time in two days. Her face is startling white against the dark mess of her hair, stuck to her skin by the rain. There's already a puddle forming under her, he notices without meaning to.

She's dressed in lose house-clothes – a t-shirt and slacks. They're dark with water, dark and heavy, and he can't make out any sign of a wound.

"Nakamori-san?" He only just remembers the formality without stuttering, a fact which he should be worried about but which he can't spare the thought to even consider. "Nakamori-san, where – "

"I'm alright," hisses Aoko from between clenched teeth, the quiet sound of water poured on red-hot metal. "My leg – just grazed. I was just, was just scared." He's not sure whether it's the pain, or the cold, or just fear making her stammer. It freezes his gut regardless.

Sawara-san creeps up out of nowhere to pull Aoko up against her side, wrapping thin arms around Aoko's shoulders. Aoko's trembling now, lips pursed tight as tears drip down her cheeks.

"Which leg? Nakamori-san?"

"L-left."

He finds the tear in the fabric on the outside of the pant leg a few inches above her knee. It rips easily under his stiff fingers.

The wound is deep, but as she says it's a gash rather than a puncture. It's bleeding steadily, though, and as soon as he's reassured himself it's not serious Kid's pressing his palm tight against it. He looks up to find Oogawa at his side.

"Do you have any cloth? And a coat…" he trails off as he notices that the lieutenant's already stripped off his trench coat. The man lays it over Aoko, Sawara-san tucking it around her. That done, he tears a sleeve from his shirt and begins to rip it into strips, handing them to Kid one at a time. The thief ties them off, then glances around for something to prop her leg up on. Oogawa's already on that, though, moving over towards one of the crooked chairs probably used by the guards. He's halfway across the room when the gunshots break out like short bursts of thunder somewhere above them.

Kid pulls his card-gun from its holster for all the protection it can give, and leans over Aoko with teeth locked tight and his eyes on the door. He knows she is watching him, in the same way he knows the sun is in the sky and the moon orbits the earth; the knowledge is there but not something he thinks about.

Almost half a minute goes by. One of the kids rolls over in his sleep. Oogawa creeps towards the door, own weapon in his hand.

Then footsteps in the hall; more than one person. Kid tenses. The door flies open with a rattling bang, and Nakamori shoots in.

The Inspector is red in the face, eyes sharper than Kid's ever seen them. There's a long rip in his coat between his shoulder and his heart, the black of Kevlar peeking through below.

And then he's at Aoko's side, holding her shoulders in shaking hands.

"Aoko? Gods, I – are you alright? What's wrong?" He turns his head to her leg and swivels then back to her face again, like a bird following motion.

"It's nothing, Dad. It's fine, just a scratch –"

"Oogawa, call the goddamn medics."

"They're already on their way," says Kid, quietly. His voice breaks through Nakamori's frantic fervour all the same, and the Inspector slows to stare at him as if he's a stranger. Kid remembers abruptly that the man hasn't seen him as Kaito before.

"Kid? What happened to you?"

Or maybe it's just the bruises on his face.

Kid ignores that; it's not important. "What's going on upstairs? Did you find him?"

Nakamori freezes, face locking down. "It's over," he says in a flat tone, and there's only one thing that kind of finality can mean.

The stillness feels like winter, like early mornings after snowfall when the world is pristine and white and empty and _silent_.

Kid can't condone killing; that's something no kaitou can do, because once he does he's got all the tools he needs to crush nations, but at the moment he can't quite regret it either, which is damn dangerous. He can, in fact, not seem to manage a reaction of any kind. But he's not exactly in his right mind. He is running entirely, 100% on adrenaline, and when it runs out he will be left a cold, empty, shaking mess and he knows it. He needs to get the hell out of here before time runs out, and he crashes like a plane with no fuel.

Fortunately, everyone is much more concerned with Aoko – as they should be. Even Nakamori, whose finger it quite possibly was on the trigger – has already turned back to her. Kid slips back to let Oogawa take his place with the chair the man intended to bring earlier to prop up her legs.

With a moment of calm for the first time in what feels like years, Kid can look around and really take stock, not just of potential dangers and exists, but of everything. He finds himself in a makeshift nursery. There are only five kids, but there seem to be more, the overall sum far more than its parts. They're sleeping in corners and huddled against walls, like ragdolls flung haphazardly into a room and left there.

The weight of their lives is staggering, and it crashes down out of nowhere on his shoulders so heavy he almost stumbles. Kid, who has held gems worth hundreds of millions of yen, is stunned by the price of it. Money is valueless to him – what could it possibly mean to a boy who can nearly pull it out of thin air? – but life is immeasurably precious, these tiny lives infinitely so.

This is real. This isn't some buffoon in a suit screwing around and tripping over his own shoes. This is children being hurt, this is lives being threatened, this is Aoko trembling against him.

This is not something he will allow.

It's a decision made in the heart of a second in the middle of a room that at that instant doesn't know he exists, but he knows the weight of these lives on his shoulders will hold him to it. Hold him to it with the white-knuckled grip of a man holding onto a tiger, very aware that it's only him standing between it and slaughter.

The wind shifts momentarily, and brings with it the distant sound of sirens, and the moment passes. His shoulders slump, cold beginning to seep in. Time to go.

Washio and Takarai come in, presumably finished whatever task Nakamori left them in the middle of to find his daughter. In the sudden shift of attention towards them, no one notices him back over to a corner window. They don't notice him flick the lock open, either.

His shoulder burns hot as he boosts himself up onto the sill, watching Nakamori sitting with Aoko – the man sits still and stiff as rusty iron and doesn't say a word, just focuses on her with intensity so hard it's nearly visible, cold and blue in the air. She will be safe here, she _is_ safe here. He has done all he could to see to that; somehow it was enough.

Kid flips out into the soaked bushes under the window, thick leaves rustling around him, weighed down with rain. He slides the window closed behind him with trembling hands. His legs feel like chilled jelly, his heart like it's flapping in an empty well.

Not good.

The cement is a dark sea in the falling rain – it's eased off now to a misty shower, clouds having emptied themselves of a lake's worth of water. He follows the rough uneven feeling of cement under his feet and the map in his head, and comes up against the green iron bars of the front gate almost without thought, half sleep-walking. The shine of the streetlight is a firefly glow here, and in it he can make out a short form leaning against the gate.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were drunk," says Edogawa Conan's voice from the deep shadows.

_Great_, thinks Kid, trying not to sag. _Just great_. What little strength he has left is bleeding out of him; he's so tired he can feel it wrapped around him like a heavy blanket. This is really not a good time for this.

"I wish I could say I was expecting you," he says with hardly any of his usual enthusiasm. More accurately, he'd just put the detective out of his mind, and once out he had stayed there.

"I'm perfectly capable of reading a map," says the boy sourly. And then, more dryly, "Or did you really think that phone call came it at the necessary instant by chance?"

Kid boggles slightly, despite his exhaustion.

"You're not the only one who can imitate people," says a gruff, dangerous voice, from waist-height. The voice from the ransom call, recognizes Kid's ears, his brain lagging behind. "And since I already knew the number, and that they had the phone, all I had to do was dial when I heard the shot. Whatever was going on, it was bound to distract."

The nice thing about detectives is that they're never hesitant to explain their tricks. It always leaves Kid, who of course never reveals his, with the smugness of someone who knows more than everyone else: only idiots and greenhorns give themselves away. The real trick is keeping your secrets.

If he stays here much longer, he'll lose all of his at once.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" asks the detective, after a pause, and Kid bites back a smart answer. Kid's not a smart-ass, at least not with words although he _has_ been known to get a bit fresh with his heists, and now's not the time for it even if he were.

"Everything was taken care of," he says in an echo of Nakamori's words. "The hostages are safe."

"And the kidnappers?"

"In police custody." All but one, who is in another form of custody all together, and he's sure he'll be conflicted about that later.

"Maybe we should," begins the kid, but Kid can feel the squad cars approaching in his bones, the back of his neck beginning to tingle, and he's in no state to cut things hair-thin.

"As much as I love chatting with you," says Kid, who can hear the sirens now, "I have things to take care of." Things which don't include Kuroba Kaito going downtown in a squad car.

The kid's starting to say something, but he's done here. More than done here, and at the same time he wants to stay with Aoko so much his chest burns, acid harsh, until each breath is like inhaling sulfer.

Kuroba Kaito might have stayed, but he would have been Kid underneath, and Kid has no particular reason to be interested in Nakamori Aoko. He's turning into a damn Matryoshka doll, one layer inside the next, and he's pretty sure he doesn't like it.

Maybe that's the exhaustion talking. And, as much as he would love to crawl home and sleep – sleeping in his bed seems like an unattainable dream, soft and warm and cozy – his night isn't over yet.

Without bothering to say goodbye – without bothering to say anything at all – he vaults up and over the wet gate, lands with instinctive skill on the other side next to a sagging azalea bush.

He doesn't miss the praise he would have receive as an officer, as a bystander, as anything other than what he is, but he does miss the ride he would have been given. Wet and alone, the thief fishes his satchel out of the shrub he left it in, pulls out a pair of hand warmers for his pockets, and begins the long walk to the station.

Aoko and the kids are safe, and he knows he should feel relief, gratitude, joy, or any number of the warmer emotions. But aside from cold, all he feels is a kind of insubstantial twist in his gut, like hunger. He thinks it may be foreboding.

TBC in Epilogue


	13. Interlude III: Officers of the Law

Notes: Calling Osaka the most important prefecture is a bit of a liberty, but Tokyo as a _to_ doesn't really count as one, although technically Osaka as a _fu_ is a special case as well, but it's much closer. That's my reasoning and I'm sticking to it. Also, as you can see, I lied, or at least wilfully misled about the epilogue. But in keeping with tradition, since this doesn't really count as anything I'll put it up in a day or two.

i. 東山 (_Higashiyama)_

Higashiyama is packing. He's always been pragmatic, even with his head-strong tendency of ignoring prevailing winds. Hard work and unforgiving principals have gotten him this far, but they won't carry him any further, at least in this region. With Hattori's reputation, probably not on this island.

There will be no media report, no scandal. Hattori will keep things quiet – he would never have risen so high in the Force without a ringing dedication to it. But the Osakan Police Chief doesn't need a lobby. He doesn't even need to lift a finger. His reputation alone will hammer the nails into Higashiyama's coffin. The Superintendant has assaulted the son of one of the most respected officers in the Force, and no station from Nagano to Hiroshima will have him. Running back to Sapporo with his tail between his legs is inconceivable. The best he can hope for is something in Fukuoka, and that's no certainty.

He's sure Hattori is in the city by now – although Higashiyama's not masochistic enough to wait for him at the hospital, he's not suicidal enough not to have the man contacted, either. And if he's in the city, it's only a matter of time before he makes his visit to Arakawa to demand reparations, with number one being a certainty. The Superintendant doesn't have his letter written yet, but he's not sure he'll have time before Arakawa calls him in for the reckoning.

Higashiyama has no doubt whatsoever as to who set him up. Kid works Nakamori like a puppet, has him dancing right along to his tune; that much is now clear. If it wasn't obvious from the instant he realised that there was no mask on that kid's face, it certainly was when he got back to the office and slammed the CD into his computer only to find it a completely blank disc. He had expected false data, expected a message, expected at least some of Kid's usual mocking.

Higashiyama has the distinct impression that, wherever Kid is, he is laughing.

Nakamori clearly isn't in collaboration with the thief – it's painfully obvious now that Kid is at least as quick as Higashiyama himself, and the Superintendant could never put up with Nakamori's bumbling. The Inspector's just even denser than Higashiyama took him to be.

Almost certainly.

The Superintendant had considered leaving a note for his successor, warning him to keep a sharp eye on the Kaitou Kid Task Force, but he's decided against it. Sooner or later, Nakamori will put a foot wrong and sink his boat all on his own, or Kid will get tired of herding him and sink it for him, and there's no point in gaining a reputation as a well poisoner.

And so tersely, but with a fatalistic calm, Higashiyama packs up his office. He's lost, this time. But Kid, by the nature of his … _occupation_, is a traveller. Sooner or later, he'll end up wherever Higashiyama is. And the Superintendant will be waiting for him.

_ii. __服部 __(Hattori)_

Hattori Heizou has a terrifying reputation. It's no surprise – given his city – that he's often called the Osakan Tiger to his face. Behind his back they have a less salubrious name for him: the demon of Osaka. But the rumours are both wrong: what they mistake for fury on the Osakan chief's part is in fact just his usual flint-hard determination and interest in justice. Hattori Heizou, demon of Osaka, is not an angry man.

Just at the moment, though, he is furious.

17 years ago in a hospital room, he accepted the fact that a son would be bound to cause trouble at times. Subsequently, he realised an only child growing up with himself and Shizuka for parents would be head-strong as a bulldog. A few years ago, he realised how awkward having a teenage detective for a son could be for a Police Chief. Some months ago, when Heiji lay in a hospital room with a bullet hole in his gut, he realised the boy would by his nature be getting himself into trouble most parents would never even consider.

It has never, until now, occurred to him how incredibly wrenching the combination of all those facts could be.

There will be time later to chew his son out for showing up on a rooftop in downtown Ginza as _Kaitou Kid_ – really, he seriously wonders sometimes if the boy hasn't taken too many shinai blows. But right now as he sits on an uncomfortable plastic chair in his work suit with a briefcase by his side and plane ticket stub still in his pocket, watching his son sweat out the after effects of a tranquiliser serum calculated for a man half again his weight, it is the fact that _a cop purposely put his son in this bed_ that is boiling his blood.

The doctors say it will take another hour at least for the drugs to wear off enough for Heiji to wake, by which time Shizuka will be here and he'll be free to go find Arakawa and ask him what the _hell_ his subordinate means by shooting suspects – suspects, not Heiji – with tranq rifles and mauling them afterwards. Heizou didn't get as far as he did by being unobservant – he's already noticed the bruises on Heiji's wrists and the gauze patch over his heart. The doctors weren't at all pleased about that – neither is Heizou.

He's perfectly aware of Higashiyama's reputation as unrelentingly stubborn, unwilling or unable to give up a task once he's taken it on. As a compulsive, hard-nosed man whose driving need to come out on top has not won him many friends, least of all in a position he has not held long enough to wear the polish off his seat cover. Heizou has known Higashiyama's type before, and he's known them to go two ways: isolated officers who despite the space they're given still manage to make exemplary careers and win respect if not friendship, and officers who can't draw the line between hard and too hard and end up overshooting it, usually by several kilometres. Right now, it's not hard to see which Higashiyama's tending towards. That may be an unfair assessment, but just at this instant he's in no position to care.

Heizou doubts it will be needed, but the demon of Osaka – who is perfectly aware of his reputation – is ready to throw all his considerable weight in to produce a reckoning. He almost, _almost_ hopes Arakawa tries to fight him on it – his teeth are aching for a good no-holds-barred fight and as Chief of Police of the most important prefecture in the country there are damn few people he can take on without automatically having to pull punches. It's unlikely, but a man can dream.

In a few hours he will pick up his briefcase again, and the Police Chief of Osaka will leave to do his job. Just for the moment, though, Heizou sits quietly by his son's bedside, with one heavy hand resting on Heiji's arm.

_iii. __荒川__( Arakawa)_

Any man holding the post of Superintendant General of Tokyo becomes used to extreme problems very quickly. But it's been a while since Arakawa was presented with an internal one quite so extreme.

It had been apparent from the beginning that Higashiyama would put plenty of backs up, but he hadn't expected the man to go raising a riot with Hattori Heizou.

"I can give you two weeks," is all he says, looking up from the paperwork at his desk without raising his chin when Higashiyama marches in to face the firing squad. "You'll have your letter tomorrow."

"Yes, sir." Higashiyama is gruff as ever, but there is nothing underneath it; it is simply the closest the man ever comes to neutrality. Arakawa is relieved to see no protest in him, although not particularly surprised. The Superintendant General saves his energy for fights which have an undetermined outcome, and is not interested in wasting any here. He suspects Higashiyama's view is much the same. There is no point in trying to make a rock float.

"Due to the circumstances you will not be entitled to the usual benefits," points out Arakawa, watching to see that the message has taken:_ you are out on your ass, not just removed from your position._ As of now, he has effectively been pruned out of the system, and more than just losing the superfluous favours like a small retinue of staff to take with him to his next posting, his pension and benefits will suffer from the break in employment. Assuming he chooses to reapply for a position in the Force in some other branch. Not that that's much of a gamble.

"I understand, sir."

"Very well. Anything you want to say?"

"Will you be following up any inquiries into this afternoon's incident?" It's a credit to him that Higashiyama keeps the word "incident" carefully segregated from any emphasis. But it still raises flags, and the irritated urge to cross it out and write in _disaster_ in its place.

"There will be _detailed_ investigations into the origins of that tranquiliser rifle, as well as its permits and handler," says Arakawa, feeling by the Inspector's question that he has perhaps not stepped on fingers hard enough.

"It was all done under my orders, sir."

"Yes, I believe that has been made abundantly clear." Arakawa gives the man a withering stare for a second or two longer than necessary, and then backs off. "However, _apart_ from that, yes, you may be assured that there will be inquiries made into the circumstances behind the … incident." He gives the word its pause, but makes no other move to highlight it.

"Then no, sir. There's nothing else."

Arakawa nods. "Fine. I'll expect a written apology to Hattori Heizou on my desk tomorrow morning. And a follow-up report of the incident."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

Higashiyama salutes and walks out straight-backed, pretentious to the last. Arakawa feels a qualm of regret for not making the man write an apology to Hattori Heiji as well, but there's no point in alienating him further by forcing him to apologize to a minor who he had cause to arrest, if not in the fashion he chose. He's not Higashiyama's superior any more – the Inspector will give no more orders except to control report-collecting and the preparation of briefs for his successor. It will be up to his next boss to rein him in as necessary.

The situation, for all that it will rile the men up and put Tokyo and Osaka on precarious footing for a while, is under control and really was only flapping loose for a very few seconds. Hardly anything in the way of action was required from him; everything was decided from the instant the trap was set in place. Higashiyama slit his own throat, and he'll be lucky to make a comeback in years, if at all. He'll probably slink off to Fukuoka, if he's lucky – there might be an assistant position open for him somewhere in a lower level department – and he'll have to work his way back up from there. Arakawa won't speak for him, but he won't speak against him, either. The man made some bad choices with good goals in mind, but only one of them should be held against him, and rumour will take care of that at least as effectively as he could.

Arakawa spends his time waiting for his next meeting reading up on the "situation," and wondering why on earth Kid was so anxious to get Higashiyama off his back.

And then Hattori Heizou storms into the room, and Arakawa's attention is commanded entirely by the demon of Osaka.

Heizou is, of course, furious. Steaming, fuming, boiling mad, in fact, more so than Arakawa can ever remember him being, although the man has it controlled under a particle-thin layer of ice.

But once he's sure steps will be taken he – reluctantly – lets the matter drop. Arakawa expected no less – the man has always been a real professional, and one of the best officers the Force has. It will be harder to quash the anger in the Osakan Force, where Heizou's son is nearly as popular as he is. Arakawa has no choice but to trust the Chief to look after that, and he does.

"The real matter," says Heizou, taking a seat at Arakawa's direction across from the Superintendant General at the office's small conference table, "is what the hell is all this business about Kid?"

"Something requiring careful observation. Clearly Kid wanted Higashiyama out of the way, although I can't speak to his motives." The only thing that is clear is that the thief considered Higashiyama, but not Nakamori, an enemy, and that is worrying enough.

"The man wasn't threat?"

"To Kid? He might be more harsh than Nakamori, but he's not much less predictable."

"Sure as hell took _me_ by surprise," growls Heizou.

"I believe," says Arakawa slowly, folding his hands carefully on the table, "it may have something to do with other recent cases." He doesn't want to spread this across jurisdictions, and until the case is closed he _won't_ bring more attention to it than necessary. Years of police work have taught him that while more eyes are always helpful, there is a saturation point and beyond that the weight of all the extra attention can be crippling. Besides which, Chief though he may be, Hattori is not from Tokyo and there is always an intrinsic shrink from outside attention, outside fingers prying into home turf.

"Any of them take place in Osaka?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"Then how d'you suppose Heiji got dragged in? Unless – was Kudou involved?"

"Kudou?" A dusty bell rings, old newspapers, cops from Beika gossiping in the canteen… "That kid detective?"

"He's been dragging Heiji into all kinds of trouble lately. Well," amends Heizou with dark eyes and a gruff tone, "it probably runs both ways."

"I haven't heard him mentioned recently," is all Arakawa can say to that. He doesn't keep tabs on all the kids who run after the uniforms, but although he can remember Kudou's being something of a regular topic in the halls a while ago, as a phase he seems to have died out. Not that he hears all the minor gossip up here. "I'll check into it."

Heizou doesn't exactly nod, but the shrug carries the same value. "I'll see what Heiji's story is, but the boy's already grown a stubborn streak the size of Osaka Harbour."

Arakawa pointedly does not mention the family resemblance. "Any information he has about Kaitou Kid is, of course, extremely valuable." It's a concession not to demand the boy be interviewed by a Tokyo officer, but now is not the time to force undesirable options on the Hattori family. Besides, Heizou knows just as well as he does what he would demand if he felt the situation were up to it. And he knows how not to strain it.

"I'll have him write you a report. He's gotten good at that, at least."

"Thank you. I will of course see that he receives a letter of apology –" from the Tokyo Force signed by him, because it means nothing to him to apologize to a child, but to Higashiyama it would be an affront. Something the man might want to consider, but Arakawa knows he never will, at least not if someone else doesn't force the thought on him.

"That isn't necessary," protests Heizou out of politeness, but Arakawa waves it away.

"And, of course, the hospital bills and so on will be taken care of."

Heizou shrugs again, this time out of indifference, or rather due to the introduction of a subject he hasn't considered. Stands, to tower over Arakawa momentarily. A good build for a senior officer. Arakawa stands himself, and returns Heizou's curt bow.

"If you need anything Heiji forgets in his report, you know my number." The Osakan, Arakawa notices, underlines his own rather than giving his son's. _Any investigation will go through me, first_. Arakawa wonders whether he should even bother to note that down for the investigation team; he doubts there are five people in Tokyo Force who would call Hattori Heizou to talk to him about this.

A fact of which Heizou is, of course, perfectly aware.

"Thank you," says Arakawa blandly, appreciating a worthless gift. Or rather, a razor-edged one. Heizou nods, and lets himself out.

An hour later, all hell breaks loose, for the second time that day.


	14. Epilogue

Notes: Well, finished at last! This is the longest fic I've ever written, so I'm pretty pleased I managed to see it through to the end! A huge thank you to the flood of encouragement; that too was a first! Since I know people are going to be asking about a sequel and the answer is: maybe. I'm feeling pretty burned out from writing this, and a sequel would have to be both longer _and_ more intricate. Currently my motivation for writing one is not huge, and I don't want to start something I wouldn't finish, having been on the receiving end of that too many times. _However_, I am giving it thought and do have some plans, so it's certainly a possibility. Don't expect anything in the immediate future is all I can really say. There may, on the other hand, be some stand-alone fics, who knows? Thanks again to the wonderful reader base!

* * *

_Epilogue I: The Nakamoris_

Nakamori is expecting all hell to break lose when word of the operation got back to HQ, and in a way it does, but what becomes apparent early on is that they are not the first crisis of the day, and there are only so many times in 24 hours that full-scale hell can break loose.

With none of his senior men free, he sends Hoshino to tell the Superintendant General he'll be in to see him later, and warns the man not to say anything he doesn't have to. For the first time in his memory, the Inspector abandons a crime scene to stay with Aoko, rides with her in the ambulance to the hospital.

The wound is a deep gash, and although there's been some blood loss, he's told the muscle damage is minimal. She's given stitches in the ER and then released to him, along with some antibiotics and painkillers and an injunction to make sure she stays hydrated. Sawara Reina is kept for overnight supervision; Sawara is sitting by her side when he leaves.

Aoko sleeps all the way home in the cab – although they only gave her a local she must be exhausted – and he carries her up to her room, almost smiling at the weight in his arms. He's not sure why he thinks of Kid when he walks in until, after laying Aoko down, he spots the hole in the drywall by the window. He should have it removed and framed as the first true emotion the thief ever showed, but he can't fault the kid for something which quite possibly saved his daughter's life. So he'll plaster it over, and say nothing about it.

Nakamori is just going downstairs to lock up when the doorbell rings, and for an instant it is two days ago and he's waiting for the forensics team with a tight chest.

It seemed like a nightmare, then, that Aoko was gone. It seems like a dream, now that she's back.

He answers the door warily, not sure who he is expecting.

It's sure as hell not Arakawa, standing with an old man's uncoordinated posture, limbs held at awkward angles. He reminds Nakamori suddenly very much of a boxer outside of the ring, gangly and unbalanced.

On any other night, Nakamori would hover and blather and make noises of confused deprecation. This is not any other night, and so he silently steps to the side to let Arakawa in. The Superintendant General of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police steps over the threshold with a nod, and glances upstairs as he toes off his shoes, setting them beside the humble Inspector's.

"Aoko-chan is sleeping?"

"Yes," says Nakamori, not bothering to ask how the man knows she is here. Nakamori and the Squad are front page news in the copper's circular, and it's certain his movements at the hospital were monitored and reported.

"There will have to be a report," says Arakawa, waiting politely for Nakamori to direct him, and then walking into the front room as indicated and settling himself on a worn zabuton.

"Yes."

"You should have reported everything to Section One. You should have let them handle it." Arakawa is always stern when discussing trivialities; it's only when he seems to relax that things get truly serious.

"I'm afraid that was impossible, sir," says Nakamori blandly, safe with an unbreakable excuse.

"Victims' relatives are expressly prohibited from taking part in their investigation, never mind running it, as you well know," says Arakawa severely. Sitting cross legged with his gnarled hands held loose in his lap and his back straight, he looks like a mid-level manager taking his staff to task during an enkai. Until he loosens slightly and leans back, face relaxing into an expression of unconcern. Then he merely looks like a harmless old man in ill-fitting clothes who is not quite comfortable in his own skin. Until you meet his hawk-sharp eyes. "Of course," he says blandly, "as excuses go it's fireproof."

Now is not the time to boggle. Now is the time to sit still as a mouse under a swooping eagle, because the truth is impossible and a lie would be deadly. All he can do is wait, and try to weather the storm.

"Oogawa came to see me this afternoon," continues the Superintendant General in a _by the way_ tone. "If he ever chooses to leave the Squad there will be plenty of doors open for him."

"I'll let him know."

"I'm sure it was just the stress, but he seemed bolder than I recall."

"He was probably just pressed for time. You should see him when I'm late with my reports," says Nakamori, boldly himself. He's lying through his teeth, and they both know it.

"It's been a difficult time for all of you. Of course, I'm relieved the children have been recovered safely. And I understand that times like this can on occasion call for … irregular methods. Nevertheless, that has been the catchphrase of more than one criminal, and worse." Arakawa looks straight at him, amber eyes shining. "It cannot happen again."

Nakamori sits perfectly still.

"As it is, you're damn lucky everything worked out. Or was made to work out."

_Friends in high places_, thinks Nakamori vaguely.

"I'll be frank," says Arakawa, leaning forward. Nakamori doubts it. "I don't want to lose you, Nakamori. You're a good officer, and you're a good cop. And you've been rolling with the punches, not throwing them. But regardless, there can be no more of this. I cannot and will not turn a blind eye again."

"Yes, sir," says Nakamori, thickly. "Thank you, sir."

"Very well." Serious, below-boards business taken care of, Arakawa straightens and his features harden.

"I would like to give you the day off tomorrow, but that's out of the question. You and several members of the Squad will have to be investigated for discharging your weapons while off duty. And you will have to face a committee for the death of that man."

"Yes, sir," says Nakamori, who knows all that already.

"I will ask you now how you found the children," says Arakawa, having given him time to think up an answer.

Nakamori, who didn't need it, explains – broadly – about the phone tracking and realises he needs more details from Kid and doesn't know how to get them. Something for tomorrow, as if he didn't have enough on his plate.

"Clever," says Arakawa.

_Yes_, thinks Nakamori._ Too bad we didn't think of it._

The Superintendant General nods, and glances up at the roof. "Lastly," he says, relaxing slightly. "Is there anything you can tell me about the men who were behind this?"

Nakamori's muscles tense under his skin, and it's all he can do to keep from snapping like a kite string taken in a sudden breeze. _All I know, Inspector, is what I told you: that they are dangerous. Very dangerous._ The words echo in his mind. "I can't, sir, but I'd damn well like to know who they were."

"Hm. Well, perhaps you had better leave that to Section One for the time being. You'll be kept abreast of the investigation, of course." Arakawa looks back to him, and the message is clear as Aoko's trinkets in his eyes: _don't go butting in again_.

"Yes, sir."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," says the Superintendant General and stands, joints moving stiffly and without coordination, like a string puppet. Nakamori scrambles to his feet. "The other men have been notified that they'll have to come in to make statements, but it should only take a couple of hours."

"Thank you, sir."

Arakawa waves an unconcerned hand. "Say hello to Aoko-chan for me; she must be quite grown up by now. And," he adds on the doorstep, eyes shining in the light of the hall, "mind yourself."

Nakamori lets him out without answering. And only then notices a scrap of paper taped up high by the hinge corner of the door. He picks it off and opens it.

_Back yard_ has been written in a precise hand, on what he recognises as a corner of the kitchen telephone message pad. Nakamori, with a cold calm brought on by the knowledge that whatever is waiting, Aoko is safe, reaches under his windbreaker and pulls out his revolver, reloads it with bullets from the lockbox on the top of the hall closet, and makes his way to the back door without bothering to turn on the kitchen light. He slides the door open silently, and steps out in his socks onto the engawa.

The garden is dark and quiet, air cool with the fallen rain. He can barely make out the back fence, as usual.

"I didn't realise you were so high up in the food chain, Inspector," says Kid's voice from the shadows. Nakamori sighs, flicks the safety on and holsters his weapon.

"Regret coming?" He asks, patting his pockets for his cigarettes.

"There's still the matter of payment," replies Kid with a non sequitur.

Nakamori had forgotten; the Forest's Tear is in a cheap velvet box in his sock drawer upstairs.

"Of course," he says gruffly. "Just let me go and –"

A shadow steps closer, and becomes a silhouette. A dark hand reaches out, envelope held between gloved fingers. "Here," says Kid. "A transcript of the conversations between you and Lieutenant Toshibu, the one between Lieutenant Oogawa and the Superintendant General, the one between officer Yamamoto and Docomo, and an explanation of the cell phone tracking, as well as the required information. You'll have to tell Yamamoto; obviously you can say you got the number and password from him. I realise," adds Kid in a less formal tone as Nakamori stares at the envelope in his hand, "that this is not exactly an equal exchange for the damages done, never mind the potential ones, but it's all I can provide that I think you would accept." There is a slight pause during which Nakamori tries to compute the fact that Kid is trying to _pay him_ for having rescued his daughter. "Unless, of course, you would prefer a diamond," says the thief, brightly.

That, at least, is enough to bring him back down to earth.

"No!" growls the Inspector. "But – you were the one helping us. You could have been shot – killed –"

"I thought you were denying any of this ever took place, Inspector. I certainly didn't help you; I was in fact never there, or here. I won't accept payment for nothing. And," he says, darkly, "I _certainly_ won't accept it for endangering lives."

Nakamori would almost give the Forest's Tear to see the thief's face right now.

"Can I thank you?" asks Nakamori, gruffly. He has absolutely no doubt as to who he owes for the fact that Aoko is here now, sleeping in her own bed.

"No," says Kid. And then, softer, in a tone that _hurts_ – he's never pulled that before and Nakamori doubts he means to now, "No thanks for this."

In the street, a car's exhaust coughs, and Nakamori is abruptly reminded of Arakawa's warning, given only a few minutes ago. "I guess you should go," he says.

There is no answer; Kid is already gone.

* * *

The old couple who live behind them go to bed every night at eight, and only come out into the garden on Sunday to water the extremely parched plants. Aoko, creeping around the side of their house slower than she usually would have due to her limp, is fairly certain it would take the entire Metropolitan Police Department's squad cars showing up with sirens blazing in front of their house to wake them. Consequently, she doesn't worry about knocking over a couple of their cat-discouraging water bottles.

Although she's never been in their back yard, she has seen it through the slats in their fence and from her window and knows there's a thick layer of shrubbery right up against the fence. She stands next to it, weight on her good leg and hands in the pouch of the hideous hoody her aunt gave her for her birthday two years ago "for her to grow into." It's still two sizes too big; she has no idea how her aunt expected a girl of fifteen to grow enough to fill it, except by growing sideways.

As near to the fence as she can get, Aoko can clearly hear her father's low rumble, and another less familiar voice. She woke up half an hour ago when the doorbell rang and crept out of bed to hear her father talking with the Superintendant General of Tokyo; she hopes fervently he cleaned the front room. Then the man left, and her father went out into the back yard. To talk to Kaitou Kid.

Aoko's no idiot. She knows perfectly well her father has been working with the thief to get her back, or at least cooperating with him. She knows Kid will never make a boring exit if he could make a melodramatic one. She knows the roof of their house is much too low for him to use his glider from. And, she knows the sides of their house are impassable due to narrowness and gardening tools. It doesn't take a genius to figure out Kid's escape route.

And Aoko has a few things to discuss with the moonlit thief.

There's a quiet creak from the fence as Kid pulls himself up on it, and then a louder wet rustle as he lands in the shrubs. And then as he stumbles out, Aoko hits him full in the side, knocking him right over before he can catch his balance and pins him to the ground with all her weight. She feels him coil tight to spring, and hisses, "It's me, Nakamori Aoko."

Under her, Kid goes very still, but doesn't untense. In fact, he radiates palpable tension, every muscle and ligament locked tight and unyielding. He says nothing.

"I want you to show me your face," she says, soft and dangerous as a snake.

"I'm afraid," begins Kid in a light tone. She slices through it like a scythe through grass.

"I heard you talking to Dad. I know what the stakes were. Why you were involved. They took us because of you – to get to you."

There is a moment of silence, and then, calm and serious but still easy, "Yes, that's true," says Kid.

"Everything that happened, that could have happened, is your fault," explodes Aoko in a heated whisper fuelled by 36 hours of absolute terror. "We could have been killed, we could have been –" she cuts off, unable to finish, the fear of being assaulted in her own house, of being raped in the back of a van, of being tortured and killed when dragged off alone in an abandoned school welling up and threatening to drown her, " – and it's your fault," she says, thickly.

"No," says Kid, so quietly she almost misses it under the beating of her pulse in her ears. "It was my responsibility, but not my fault. I'm sorry – more than you would believe – and if I –" a tiny note of emotion creeps into his voice, and he cuts off immediately, gates slamming closed. "I can't say or do any more than I have," he finishes lamely.

"Show me your face," she hisses, suddenly furious, and slides the hand pinning his shoulder towards his jaw. His hand catches her wrist and holds it tight in a cold hand.

"No," he says, and it's less a command than a regret. "Besides, you don't really want to see it. No," he cuts off her protest, "you don't. Even if you could find out who I am, what then? Would you tell your father? No, you've got too much pride for that. Every time he was stuck on a case, every time something went wrong, every time you got frustrated, you'd want to tell him, and wouldn't be able to. And eventually you'd hate me even more than you do now for letting you have what you want." His voice is hard and sharp as a slap in the face, and she reels.

More softly, he adds, "I can't pay reparations for something I wasn't the cause of."

"Can't, or won't?" she challenges, but her heart's not in it. Although she can't see it, she has the sense Kid is smiling, but not with humour.

"To a kaitou, they're the same thing."

"And that's why you helped Dad and the Squad? Some kind of thief's honour?" Her voice is locked somewhere between incredulity and contempt.

"Maybe I'm just a good person."

"A good person who, with an international warrant on his head, agrees to work with the police?"

"A very good person, then," says Kid, sounding a bit tense now. She wonders if he wishes she didn't know about the deal, whatever it was. Wonders why.

Under her, Kid shifts slightly and then freezes. She knows this is the only way she can hold him, can only trap him here like this where there's no way to dislodge her that wouldn't be either hugely impolite or possibly violent. She's reminded, memory flashing in traitorously, of his hand on her leg. Of the sound of blows in the dark. Of his presence crouched above her in the storm when her mind was conscious of nothing but pain and fear of the terrifying finality of death. Of a figure in a blue shirt and white pants dropping into a bed of snow, shirt wet with blood.

The rage is gone, and she is cold.

"What would you have done if you hadn't found us? If the ransom call came in?"

Kid is still under her, so quiet she can't hear him breathe.

"You would have gone," she answers. "You would have gone and turned yourself in, wouldn't you?"

There is still no reply, but she knows she's right. Knows she is _exactly _right. It's written in every line of Kid's still form, in the silence around them. For some reason, it hurts, hurts like a blow, like a cut, like a shot.

"_Why do you do this_?" She isn't crying. She's _not_, her eyes are just stinging. "How can you steal and break laws and – and _steal_, and then go out and risk your life for people you don't even know?" She draws in a rattling breath, faced with 17 years without a father and a man who risked his life for her, twice. "How can you be so _nice_?" She means to spit it out, means to pour fist-pounding venom into the tone. It comes out in a sob.

She wanted so much to hate him. It would have been so much easier that way.

Kid reaches up and rests gentle hands on her shoulders, the kind she uses to handle her mother's ornaments.

"Nakamori-san –"

"Don't pretend you know me," she says, brittle as old pottery, because even though she can't see him she knows he's staring right at her, and without knowing why she feels that he is looking right into her heart with ease. It's no power some man who's never even met her should have. But he does, as if he's known her forever.

The worst part is it only runs one way – he is nothing but a shadow to her.

"Don't pretend you can just walk into peoples' hearts like you do with their clothes."

"Even if I can?" says Kuroba Kaito's voice.

There's a pause full of stone and ice, and the only thing that keeps her from slapping him is the memory of fists striking him in the dark.

"Sorry," says Kid, in his usual suave voice, coloured with contrition. She notices, for the first time seriously, how little difference there is between his voice and Kaito's.

"How do you know him? Kaito – how did you know him?" she challenges, so fast she almost trips over the words, following an idea like a butterfly, with her eyes on it rather than the ground.

"I do my homework, Nakamori-san," comes the reply, after a beat. "On my adversaries, and their families."

"Kaito's not my family."

"He's visited plenty of heists with you."

"And how do you know that?" she pounces, triumphant.

"You've never been very inconspicuous."

"You've been watching me?" she asks, scandalised. Scandalised, and flushing. There is a lithe movement which might be a shrug. She tries to keep the fact that _this could be Kaito_ in her mind, tries to hold on to it, but Kid's presence is like sunlight to a faint shadow. It's so hard to keep the thought from slipping through her fingers with Kid here large as life beneath her, all sleek suaveness and manners where Kaito would be sarcasm and wise-cracks.

"Only when I get bored."

Aoko's eyes narrow. "You're being very frank." The only time she's ever known Kid to give a straight answer was to confuse the situation further.

"I felt you were owed something."

The words are like a spear, heavy and copper-tinged, pinning the memories of what Kid has been willing to give for her to her heart.

"If you know anything about me, you know I'm very good at math." There is no answer, so she continues. "If there's any price for this, it can't be paid in truth." She pauses and, slowly, raises her hand to press it against Kid's cheek. He flinches. "It can't be paid in blood, either."

Suddenly, the silence around them is very loud.

"Name a price," says Kid thickly. _Stupid,_ thinks Aoko. She considers what a kaitou could give her. Very nearly anything. She turns the question a different way, and considers what a kaitou has taken from her, and the pieces fall neatly into place.

"Then this is what I want you to do," she says sharply, so that he knows she means it. "There were 5 kids there, and Sawara-san. I want you to find out their birthdays. Then I want you to send a letter to Dad promising you won't run a heist on any of those days. Ever. He'll believe you."

In the road behind the house a car drives by. There's a quiet slush as its wheels slide through still-wet streets, and Aoko realises she's dropped Kid into soaked earth.

"You know, most people would have asked for money, jewels, gold… things like that."

"Is this the part where I say 'I'm not most people'?"

"This is the part where you go back inside, before you aggravate your injury." Kid starts, and sits up without warning, pulling her up with him. "Shit, your dad must be worried sick –" he says, dropping his usual nonchalance like a hat.

"I closed the door – he'll think I'm sleeping," she says, but guilt is nibbling at her, under the irritated shock brought on by Kid's effortless escape.

Then she realises she's effectively sitting in Kid's lap, and everything else goes right out the window.

There is a very awkward pause, full of blushing and pins and needles, and then 11 years of dealing with Kaito kick in – for all she knows she still may be. She just can't seem to fit the two of them into the same mental space, though. It's like staring at the sun: her mind's eye goes blurry quickly.

"I'll get going, then," she says, which seemed like a good idea right up until she says it, at which point it sounds like the stupidest thing she's ever said. Kid doesn't answer, but he helps her to stand, moving stiffly himself. If this is Kaito, she'll be able to tell tomorrow at school – and she'll go if for no other reason than to find out.

"I suppose you don't want me to walk you back," he says, wryly.

"No, thank you," she replies primly, and feels more than hears him step away from her. About to disappear, like he always does.

"Kid?" She says it almost on a whim, like stretching out her hand. He may be Kuroba Kaito, but right now he is entirely Kaitou Kid, and Kid is a stranger and a mystery.

"Yes?" comes the answer, faint as if from across a wide lake.

"I wanted – after last time – I wanted to say –" _stop stammering, dammit_, "Thank you," she spits out. It at least sounds shy, rather than grudging, which is a mercy but not a very big one.

"Don't thank me," says his voice, sharp as a knife, from right behind her. "Never thank me for what I've done. As long as you don't hate me even more – that's more than enough."

He's right there behind her, so close she's sure he can hear her breathe, and he feels like he's a million miles away. Alone, untouchable. A shadow.

"I don't hate you," she whispers. Behind her, there's a rustle, and she swivels so fast her leg almost gives out under her. She waves an arm through the air as she turns, a wide sweep at chest height.

There's no one there.

* * *

Aoko goes in to school the next day, despite her father's protests, and finds Kaito napping at his desk as usual, back bend in the same lazy arc as always with his hair sticking up in the back like an irate hedgehog. He groans when she not-very-accidentally knocks into his desk, and looks up blearily. His face is completely unmarked, eyes heavy and bored.

"Oi, Aoko, where were you? Playing hookie so early in the year? Don't think I'll lend you my notes."

Last night in the garden seems like a dream, like a fantasy. It has the same silvery tint as all things involving Kid take on, the same insubstantiality. What's happening here and now is real, Kaito nagging her like always is real. Her suspicions seem equally like a dream – so immediate and powerful at the time, and just nonsense later. She scowls, and tells him she wasn't going to ask _him_, anyway.

It's only much later that it occurs to her to ask a classmate whether Kaito was here for those two days. But by then, they've long forgotten.

* * *

_Epilogue II: The Detectives_

For all that he's usually up on events, it's not until Hattori calls him on his cell phone early the next morning – a Saturday, thank gods – that Conan finds there's been an entire second half to this case which he knew nothing about. And quickly finds that, harmless as he may seem (except to bank accounts), Kid is not someone to cross. He's managed not only to close the investigation of the Squad, but to get rid of the man who ordered it. While in the middle of a crisis. And Conan's sitting in a tiny hospital room, looking at the price of it.

Hattori tells Conan he could have been checked out last night, but stalled to give him a chance to talk to Kudou, as the Osakan will doubtless always call him. His mother, he adds, is out shopping in Shibuya.

Sitting up in bed in a white hospital gown which contrasts badly with his skin, Hattori does otherwise look fine. But Conan notices he is careful not to move more than necessary, and is sitting straight-backed and stiff against the pock-marked wall.

"Your little dart-watch was much more considerate," is all he'll say on the subject.

Conan, sitting in a cheap plastic chair with his legs dangling as always, lets it drop. Watching what little of the cloudy sky he can see over the hospital's other wing, he tells Hattori everything. The Osakan detective listens with incredulity which tightens to cold concentration as the story goes on. When he finishes they sit in the false silence of the hospital, ignoring the thousands of constant tiny background noises.

"Do you think they'll just cut their losses?" asks Hattori, finally.

It's something he's been wondering himself.

"I don't think there will be retribution drive-by shootings, or anything like that," says Conan slowly. "This isn't the mafia we're talking about. The kids and their families don't know anything damaging, so apart from frustration there's no reason to harm them, and the Organization isn't ruled by emotion. I think they'll leave well enough alone as far as the families are concerned."

"And where Kid's concerned?" says Hattori, who can spot a qualification as well as anyone.

"The fact that they went to all this trouble to have someone else take care of him – quite probably himself – suggests it would be even more trouble, if not impossible, for them to do it themselves. But if I were him…" Conan trails off, lets Hattori fill in the blank.

"I'd be watching my back."

"What I want to know is why they're after him."

"Maybe he stole something from them," suggests Hattori, in a tone which says this is the obvious answer.

"Maybe they're afraid he's _going_ to steal something from them," says Conan.

"Maybe," says Hattori darkly, "they're afraid he's going to go after something _they_ want to steal."

A beat of quiet – something heavy is wheeled by on a squeaky trolley outside the door.

"Assuming at least one of those is true, what would they need with a gem?" Conan runs a hand through his bangs. "If they wanted to keep it safe from him all they'd have to do is turn it into cash, so it must be the stone itself that they need." In the sky, the clouds are grey and wispy, still rained out after yesterday's unseasonal storm. Conan watches them drift by in the weak breeze. Hattori sits silently, but Conan can practically feel him thinking.

"You're going to try to find the link, aren't you?" It's not really a question. Conan shrugs slackly.

"It's one of the only clues I've got."

"You think you can handle these guys _and_ Kid?"

"What's the worst he can do, get me expelled from elementary school for impersonating a 7 year-old?" asks Conan, sourly. "I can take care of myself."

There's no answer to that, and Hattori makes none.

"There must be a reason they've suddenly decided to get Kid out of the way," says the Osakan, after a long pause, nudging the conversation back into safer waters. It's hardly a good time to argue with Hattori about risks when the Osakan's in the hospital with a bullet wound – albeit from a tranq round.

"Kid hasn't released a heist notice, and they can't know what he's planning without one. Something must be about to become available."

"For sale?"

"Not necessarily. I don't have any proof of the Organization committing theft, but I'm sure they wouldn't baulk at it."

"And if you find out what it is, you can set a trap? Geez, Kudou, talk about sticking your hand in a lion's mouth." Hattori's tone is concerned, but not reprimanding.

"It's going to come down to it sooner or later anyway. And the sooner we catch these bastards, the sooner they won't be able to hurt anyone else."

That's an irrefutable fact.

"Well, then," says Hattori, shifting for the first time since Conan arrived. His tone's got a slight edge to it when he speaks again. "I guess I'd better start reading up on gems. And you? Going home to read up on Kid?"

"No," says Conan, slipping down from his chair. "I'm gong home to see if the Professor can put together a more compact gas mask. Kid seems to be a walking knock-out hazard."

"Planning on seeing more of him, then?"

"Almost certainly." Conan's eyes narrow. "And next time, he'll find out _I'm_ a walking knock-out hazard, too."

* * *

_Epilogue III: The Kaitou Kid_

Kaito would have liked to sleep for two days, but the closest he can get is going to bed at 10 rather than 1:30 as usual, shocking his mother almost speechless – something he had long thought impossible.

Aoko's suspicions of him seem to have vanished – smart as she is, she's always been easy to trick. It's probably an inherited fault. Still, he doubts it will take much more to tip the scales.

It was beyond stupid to play into her suspicions, lying there with the woody smell of wet earth thick in his head, back cold and soaked and her weight pinning him into the ground. A completely insane thing to do, just because Kuroba Kaito wanted a tiny drop of recognition.

Kid is world famous, has clubs and newsletters and internet groups devoted to him, but Kid is not _real_, doesn't exist in the normal sense of the word, and although Kaito can draw pride from the success of his heists, the admiration of others might as well be addressed to someone else for all the impact it has. Kid is an insubstantial shadow, and to Kaito so is all the praise given to him, empty and meaningless.

But for one heartbeat, he wanted Aoko to know what he would do for her, what he _could_ do for her.

No kaitou should ever allow himself to be swayed by want. It would serve him right if she _did_ find out.

Maybe that's why he's always held such an interest in Conan, in Kudou Shin'ichi; in some ways the boy is in exactly the same situation as him. And all this has added one more similarity: it seems that their goals are quite probably the same, which should be interesting. Chinese curse kind of interesting.

For some reason, things have suddenly become deadly serious, and he needs to find out why. Find out, and see that it doesn't happen again, ever.

Things are starting, and Kaitou Kid will stop them.

After all, he still hasn't added "failure" to the Kuroba dictionary.

* * *

_Epilogue IV_

Rain is misting down, wrapping the old school in a cloudy blanket. In the distance, sirens are approaching. In the courtyard, two groups of men are cluttered around, some lying on the ground, lit by the pale light flowing out from a room on the first floor of one of the buildings.

By the gate, a dark figure pauses for several minutes, then hops the gate and disappears into the shrubbery surrounding the fence. A few moments later, a smaller figure slips out of the shadows by the gate and begins to walk away down the sidewalk. The streetlights reveal a child of elementary school age with a soft-sided backpack and a skateboard on his back, his large glasses dripping in the mist.

Two figures in black watch all this from the roof of one of the nearby apartment buildings.

"Well, well. This _is_ a mystery."

"Aniki?"

"Let's go. We've got some things to look into."

END.


End file.
